


Oh! you pretty things

by Aesgarthfalls



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coercion, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Fillory (The Magicians), Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, It's-a-mosaic-fic-y'all, M/M, Mutual Pining, a bit more Lunk and Arielle in this one, clothing! fashion! stuff!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesgarthfalls/pseuds/Aesgarthfalls
Summary: ‘This is Lunk,’ Arielle says. The man nods at the two magicians, leans forward, and kisses Arielle square on the mouth in a very un-Fillorian fashion, all the while not quite glancing sideways at the magicians. Eliot, who is very carefully not looking at Quentin, smiles tightly. His mouth suddenly feels very dry.At its heart a slow burn Queliot fic featuring Arielle and Lunk. And some fashion talk. And lots of booze.
Relationships: Arielle/Lunk, Arielle/Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Eliot Waugh/Lunk, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. Eliot drinks coffee, Quentin falls into a stream

**Author's Note:**

> So here's my first fanfic after a very long hiatus! I used to post on fanfiction.net in another fandom yonks ago and am quite excited to get back to writing. Thanks to everyone who's commented so far! :)
> 
> In my other life I teach self-defense for women and it's hard to not have that part of my life spill into my writing. So there will be some themes and scenes that may be more suited for a mature audience. Chapter warnings will be included where appropriate, of course. For now, happy reading!

It’s another beautiful day in Fillory, and Eliot hates it already. He takes a swig from his flask - Quentin is still washing himself in the stream, after all - and gloomily gazes at the garden.

Tendrils of mist surround the cottage, wind themselves around the trees and settle on the path leading down to the stream. Tender streams of sunlight break through the foliage above, filtering through soft light and lending the garden an unearthly appearance. _As though from a story, ahaha,_ Eliot thinks and quickly drinks again. Even the rough tang of alcohol isn’t enough to overpower the wholesome smell of a new Fillorian morning; it smells like the smell one gets after rain and the overpowering scent of the large rosemary bush growing next to the cottage. 

At the start of their quest, Eliot imagined burning everything down in a fiery haze at least once a day. Sometimes, he imagined Margo appearing next to him and gently cupping his face in her hands. 

_E,_ she would say, her dark eyes full of empathy and compassion. _You’re hurting. And what do we do with things that hurt?_

 _We make them go away,_ he’d say. And then she’d smile at him, mischievously, she’d snap her fingers, and _boom_ , _HUGE FIERY INFERNO_. And then they’d go back to Earth and Eliot would drown any feelings of guilt and shame with booze and a quickie with the new bartender from Room 41 just like the healthy, adjusted adult that he is.

He sighs. He stopped having these thoughts once he realised that with _his_ luck, the fiery haze would burn all their belongings and blacken the mosaic _but totally not harm it otherwise_ and he doesn’t want to think of Quentin’s face when Eliot tells him they have to do the mosaic without colours to help them. Oh, and naked.

He is pulled out of his reverie as a green-feathered quetzal - one of the more rare and ridiculous species Fillory has to offer, a bird which sings songs to children if asked politely - lands on a low branch next to Eliot and bobs its head questioningly. 

Eliot sighs. ‘I may not be known for my mature thoughts, but I don’t need something _twee_ singing folky songs at me. I still have some dignity, you know.’ 

The quetzal chirps and hops down the branch, closer. 

‘But I’m sure the little boy bathing in the river would be very obliged if you went and sang Jingle Bells at him.’

The bird chirps, thoughtfully, and flutters off in the direction of the river. 

‘Sing it really loudly in his ear, he loves surprises like that!’ Eliot calls after the bird. Moments later, a scream is heard from the river, followed by the sound of someone - or something - singing a very loud and shrill rendition of _Jingle Bells_ to an unfamiliar tune.

Quentin’s voice comes from the stream. ‘THE HELL? ELIOT! ARE YOU DOING THIS? MAKE IT STOP!’ This is followed by a scream and a splash, and a short pause as if the bird is contemplating the spectacle of a man flailing around and falling in the river, or is gathering its breath for another verse. 

Eliot turns back to the cottage, smiling to himself. He snaps his fingers, starting the fire underneath their little outdoor hearth. _Another wholesome, beautiful day in Fillory,_ he thinks, as another verse shrilly starts. He watches the flames in their firepit grow brighter and takes another swig from his flask.

***

‘It’s still kind of amazing that that bird knows Earth songs,’ Quentin says, sitting cross-legged and barefooted on the breakfast blanket. His jeans and black hoodie - remnants of their life on Earth - have a distinctly faded appearance after almost a year living outdoors, but even though Quentin jumped at his chance to wear Fillorian clothes the first time he came to Fillory, there’s something about wearing Fillorian clothes _now_ that feels a bit like cutting their ties with their life on Earth.

Besides, it turns out that the clothes they make for you when you’re a king are something like a hundred thousand degrees away from anything the tailors around here could even dream of producing, and Eliot doesn’t ask for much but, frankly, clothes that don’t exfoliate his skin would be quite nice. 

‘I mean,’ Quentin is saying, ‘sure, the rabbits make it to our world, and the Chatwins probably brought -’

‘- some rousing rendition of 1920s English showstoppers-’ 

‘- something like that. Anyway, that bird knows the lyrics to Jingle Bells and the music to Taylor Swift. Explain that, Jayne Mansfield.’

‘Oh, Q, don’t be basic.’ Eliot reaches for the coffee and pours out a stream of strong Fillorian coffee. Coffee is one thing this country has mastered over the years, probably because there’s jack else to do. (Well. Unless you’re a Fillorian peasant like 90% of the country, in which case you’re probably just trying to get through the next Fillorian winter and survive.) ‘Everyone with a bit of culture knows that Jayne Mansfield’s career took off in the 1940s, not the 1930s, when the Chatwins came to Fillory.’ 

Quentin proves just how cultured he is by throwing a sausage at him.

Breakfast on the multi-quilted blanket has become their ritual, and after almost a year of fighting against the annoying _wholesomeness_ of the early bedtimes and even earlier mornings that living this close to nature seems to bring, their circadian rhythms have aligned enough to start the day together. It is an arrangement they have both, to their surprise, come to enjoy: Quentin, champion of skipped breakfasts and the hurried downing of coffee in a take-away mug on his way to class (usually spilling some on his shirt in the process); Eliot, who did not believe in mornings, who would have usually risen around noon and either settled for a smoothie or a 4pm food-extravaganza with Margo. 

Anyway. It’s oddly nice to start the day together. When Eliot does sleep in - alright, when he’s too hungover to get out of bed - and finds Quentin already at the mosaic, he feels oddly robbed of something.

Their worst fights have been on days like those. 

‘Did oo mmff the ee?’ 

Okay, so perhaps some things never change. Eliot imagines Margo’s face, cocking an eyebrow at him. 

_Really, El, this guy?_

Eliot sighs. ‘Q, we’ve been over this. As ambassadors of Earth, it’s up to us to maintain standards, like not talking with our mouths full of food.’ _And teaching the trader’s kids the lyrics to every Bowie song imaginable. And quietly celebrating Audrey Hepburn’s birthday._

Quentin rolls his eyes at Eliot and swallows his mouth-full. ‘Sorry. I was just saying, this apple-thyme-sausage is amazing. What did you say the meat was?’

‘Centaur,’ Eliot says. Quentin raises an eyebrow. 

‘Just kidding, they run way too fast. It’s centaur foal.’

‘You are a horrible person, Eliot Waugh.’ Quentin says, and it’s a mark of how long they have been living together that he takes another bite from the sausage rather than flinging it down in a disgusted tantrum ( _as the Quentin who had known Eliot for a year or so would have done_ ) or delicately putting it aside, just in case Eliot wasn’t joking ( _as the Quentin who had known Eliot for a month would have done_ ). 

‘Yeah and you love me for it,’ Eliot says. He takes a small bottle out of his side-pocket, unscrews the cap and pours _a little extra_ into his morning coffee. 

And just like that, the temperature drops. 

There’s a pause during which Eliot refuses to do anything but pretend that he’s studying the not-very-intricate design of the cottage roof. Thatch; it’s nothing special. 

‘Do you think that roof needs new straw?’

Quentin ignores this. ‘I thought you said we finished all the brandy.’

‘I found this in the box the trader gave us.’ Eliot says nonchalantly. He knows that Quentin knows that he’s lying. ‘It must have been his gift to us, his faithful customers. Besides, it’s good to have a little extra in the morning. Gets the juices flowing.’

‘You mean the ethanol subtly improves the motor coordinations required to place tiles in the exact location?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean, Q,’ Eliot says, now with an edge to his voice. In the ensuing silence, Eliot leans back onto the blanket, ostensibly to look at the green canopy. He is relying on Quentin’s aversion to conflict to drop the subject. This trick works nine times out of ten, and Eliot would rather deal with a grumpy, passive-aggressive Quentin than someone who tries to talk about something that matters, like, say, how they all miss their friends, or why Eliot is drinking enough to have permanent liver damage in a couple of years.

Luckily, today’s Quentin is the standard, good-ol’ conflict averse Quentin. The subject is dutifully changed.

‘Um, so have you decided which magic tricks to perform during Ember and Umber’s Umbilical Separation Festival next week?’

Eliot briefly closes his eyes. ‘Ah, the highlight of our social calendar. How could I forget.’ 

‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ Quentin says. ‘You said the Ceremonial Carrot Planting Festival was pretty wild.’

‘That’s because the village got attacked by a Turnip Dragon,’ Eliot says.

Quentin sips his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Oh yeah. You turned it into a fire breathing rutabaga. A lack of imagination on your part, I thought.’

 _Brat._ ‘I was trying to go with the theme. Anyway, someone stepped on it, and that was that.’ 

‘Accidentally. They were trying to put out the fire and tripped.’ 

‘Good times,’ Eliot says. ‘You’re right, I guess nothing beats the Ceremonial Carrot Planting Festival.’ A sudden thought occurs to him and a slow smile spreads over his face. ‘Actually, I take that back. Do you realise what day it is, Q?’

‘You mean, besides a beautiful Fillorian day?’

‘Fuck you. Today’s the day, Q. The day our life changes.’

‘You mean, we’re doing it?’ 

Eliot turns to him, propping up his head with his arm, dark curls falling over his face, and Quentin hunkers down, mirroring Eliot’s position. His hair is still wet from his morning bath, and his face has a particular wide-eyed quality to it, which may be the after-effect of being ambushed by a bird, or just may be Quentin’s annoyingly endearing gormless expression. There’s a stray strand of hair falling slightly over Quentin’s face, and for a moment Eliot has to push down the irrational feeling of wanting to push it behind his ear. 

‘Q, baby, it’s going down.’

‘You don’t know how much I’ve longed to hear you say that,’ Quentin says. Grins. ‘Stripes and patterns?’ 

‘Stripes and patterns, Q, Stripes and Patterns!’

They both glance over at the mosaic. Quentin sighs. ‘My turn cleaning up. You grab the notebook.’

‘I cannot wait.’ Eliot takes a last gulp of coffee and looks up at the canopy. Sometimes it’s hard to drown out facts. 

Such as the fact that Eliot has gone from a campus with a steady supply of eager-to-please, _nobody-dresses-as-wonderfully-as-you-Eliot_ young men in the prime of their physique to…  
  
Pretty much nada. 

Zip. 

_So what?_ His thoughts taunt him. _A well-adjusted human being would have been grateful to be stuck in this never-ending nightmare with his best friend._

_Right._ Eliot thinks bitterly. _My very straight, incredibly cute, and mentally fragile best friend._

Look, anyone else… Eliot would have at least seduced, alright? There are things straight men do together without blinking when scarcity hits. And Eliot would have been patient. Willing. They would have felt a little sheepish in the morning, laughed about it by noon, and come to a mutually satisfying arrangement by the evening. Eliot is desperate for touch, and it would have been interesting and satisfying for both of them. 

It was, the last time they did it. And that’s the problem.

Eliot remembers the feeling of waking up, Margo’s warm body still draped over him, his body feeling wonderfully relaxed and peaceful, as it is wont to do after a night of magnificent debauchery. He remembers thinking that his left side felt oddly cold and was missing a certain body next to him. _Not to worry,_ he thought, _when nature calls, it calls_. 

He remembers opening his eyes. Realising he was looking straight at Alice, whose expression was terrible, and then looking over to _Quentin_ , whose expression was even worse. 

And then he remembers Quentin, those weeks after the break-up. Terms like _suicide ideation_ and _institutionalised three times_ suddenly gaining a very real three-dimensional meaning. 

So no. They’re not going there again. Which would be fine. Because if there’s something Eliot has always been able to do, then it’s the ability to discern and select. He has a reputation to maintain, after all, and being found in the arms of some guy with questionable taste in clothing or politics or, god forbid, alcohol, would simply not do. 

And then there’s this other thing.

It’s the thing that’s been nagging at him ever since he saw this cute little nerd stumble across the Brakebills lawn. Since Quentin looked up with those bright, confused eyes. _Where am I? Where is this?_

It’s as though those words planted a seed inside Eliot, which he has done his best to stamp out ever since. 

But of course gardening has never been Eliot’s thing. 

_‘El, falling for your straight friend. That’s kind of a bad ‘90s romcom. That shit is dated for a reason,’ Bambi said._

It helped when Quentin was still a little more pale, a little more bookish, and distractions in the form of willing partners abounded. Eliot had harbored faint hopes at the beginning that a few months on a reduced diet would bring out, oh, some dark shadows under Quentin’s eyes, a somewhat stooped demeanour. 

But of course that’s too much to ask for. 

Instead, a year of living outdoors has gotten rid of the round edges acquired by years of sitting in academia drinking too-sweet lattes, and a year of picking up tiles, repairing the cottage, going for long hikes to the village to pick up more supplies, lots of sleep, and a surprisingly delicious diet of fresh, Fillorian food, have made Quentin - well, not muscular - that’s not how his body words. But he looks lean, more prone to standing up straight, and just generally _more there._

It sometimes makes Eliot wonder how much he has changed. He can’t quite get himself to ask. 

Just in case, you know, it’s not as amazing. 

***

So this is Quentin’s masterplan, and as a plan it’s not terrible, even though it’s also not… satisfying. 

The idea is this: in lieu of knowing what the twisted mind that created the mosaic meant by “the beauty of all life”, and after two frenzied weeks of _no, this is the pattern that will definitely crack it, just you wait_ , followed by lots of swearing, Quentin suggests that they have a more… _systematic_ go at it. Since Fillory’s year isn’t counted in months - it’s probably too much to expect a functional lunar calendar from this two-mooned world, after all - this is the rough outline: the period of sweltering-hot-to-mildly-cooler is Landscape Art, followed by the damp period with lots of rain, which is Anything Polkadot Themed, followed by the freezing months with ice and snow, Cubism, followed by thank-fuck-it’s-getting-warmer, aka Magic (Quentin’s name for it, Eliot also privately refers to it as Expansion from the Centre with Swirly Bits). Now, almost a year after arriving in Fillory Past, they are going to start on Stripes and Patterns. 

So sensible, systematic, and… so utterly, entirely, unsatisfying. 

But it makes too much sense not to adhere to it. Finishing a pattern takes at least half a working day. Or four hours, 15 minutes and 63 seconds (at least according to Quentin’s phone, before it ran out of battery). 

It shouldn’t be possible to repeat a pattern within the first week. According to Quentin, statistically at least. (‘Statistic schmatistics.’ ‘Mature, El.’) Nevertheless, it had been done, probably due to fatigue, overexcitement, or some other lame excuse, yada yada. 

Anyway. The day they realised they had accidentally repeated a pattern had been a Bad Day. Both had reacted in the maturest way possible: Eliot had immediately decided to drink his way through the left-over casket of carrot-wine, and Quentin had stormed off, only to emerge a day or so later, head full of small twigs and holding a notebook and coloured chalks.

So. The Systematic Approach was born. In his mind, Eliot could hear all the maths teachers who had ever tried to teach, throwing a party.

The fiery inferno dreams had intensified after that.

And the coloured chalk had to be replenished every other month or so. 

Anyway.

Eliot is standing in front of the mosaic, pouring over the notebook when Quentin arrives smelling faintly of the weird lavender-and-honey scented soap that makes everything smell like a Renoir painting and takes layers off your skin if used more than once a day. 

Yesterday’s design is still on the mosaic; a somewhat pixelated picture of a green tree to the background of pixelated stars against a dark blue sky. It’s cheesy and also oddly beautiful. Quentin said that it looked a little like Van Gogh’s Starry Night, which Eliot suddenly _knows_ Quentin has stared at wistfully at least once in his life. 

Anyway. The new designs are starting today. Although there’s something off about them.

‘Um, El? Is everything okay?’

Eliot stares critically at the notepad. ‘I’m not sure about this design. It looks more like Snakes and Ladders than Stripes and Patterns.’ 

Quentin’s hand briefly lingers on Eliot’s elbow as he leans over him to turn a page in their notebook; a frayed, handcrafted book made from sturdy pages that soak up the colours in a satisfying way. 

It’s a mark of how long they’ve been living together that Quentin’s Western male sense of how-closely-two-men-should-stand-next-to-each-other-before-it-gets-uncomfortable has slowly evaporated and been replaced by a more elementary need for human comfort and connection. This is a mixed bag of fun. On the one hand, feeling Quentin’s physical presence has the effect of gently watering that damn seed, on the other, who’s Eliot kidding? If he had to do this quest without human skin contact he might as well throw himself in the stream next to the cottage. 

Eliot _loves_ touching people. Or rather, he loves hugs, physical touch; he is used to his Bambi cuddles and physically draping himself across people he likes, is incredibly relieved by Quentin’s increasing comfort with closeness, although he is also cautious not to push Quentin too far. _(You fucked it up already, once.)_ So Quentin initiates most of the physical contact - Eliot just makes sure he’s a comfortable person to lean into.

Quentin’s finger is tapping out a rhythm on Eliot’s elbow. He furrows his brow and points to a familiar smudge below the pattern. ‘I think that was your design. Is that a snake’s head? Eliot, we said nothing but abstraction in this series!’

‘I may have added a little snake here and there,’ Eliot admits, suddenly remembering the times he got bored and there was the new raspberry wine and _sometimes a man just has to doodle, okay_. ‘We can take out the snakes. We’ll do them in the next series.’ He grudgingly picks up a piece of chalk and starts making amends, conscious of Quentin’s warmth leaving him as he makes his way to the tiles, pulling them out into colour-coded piles on the wall that frames the mosaic.

‘What’s the next series again? Nature In All Its Glory?’ Quentin asks. He rolls up his jeans slightly before squatting down and starts pulling up the first row of tiles.

_Green, green, blue, white…._

‘I’m pretty sure it’s anime characters.’ Eliot quips, hunkering down and pulling up the back row of tiles.

‘Yeah? Were you thinking of the Studio Ghibli or the Pokemon kind?’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s Studio Ghibli. It’s okay, when we do Princess Mononoke I’ll be sure to give you and Her Two-Dimensional Pixelatedness some alone time.’

There’s a snort and a piece of chalk comes flying over the tiles and nips Eliot’s ear. He’s just about to throw it back when a completely different sound makes both do a total double-take.

_‘Peaches and plums?’_

For a confusing second, Eliot wonders if the green-feathered quetzal has returned; it’s so unusual to hear anything but a deep male voice by the mosaic and the trader isn’t due for another week at least. Then the peach hits the ground before him. He looks up. Quentin, who has clumsily managed to catch his peach, suddenly straightens his back, and when Eliot looks past Quentin he can see why. 

There’s a beautiful red-haired Being standing at the edge of the mosaic wearing what passes as Fillorian peasant-but-not-starving-peasant garment. Eliot can appreciate a beautiful person, whether male, female, non-binary, or centaur, and this particular specimen is of the startling variety, particularly for Fillorian standards, where a lack of vaccinations - and the resulting childhood diseases - and magical pox-outbreaks have a habit of marking even the loveliest of beings. 

‘I’m Arielle,’ the woman says, smiling.

‘Quentin,’ Quentin says, his voice almost, but not quite, lower than a squeak. He coughs. ‘And that’s my friend, Eliot. We’re-’

‘Magicians, I know.’ Arielle laughs. It’s a charming laugh, somewhat musical. Eliot, connoisseur of beautiful things, is oddly soothed by it. ‘My uncle is a trader and told us about the two magicians working on solving the mosaic. He said you almost tackled him the first time he drove past and bought half a year’s worth of goods on the spot. He still uses your enchantments. He says they were some of the best quality he had ever seen.’ She fixes her gaze on Eliot, an amused smile playing on her face. ‘He still talks about your enchanted wagon-rod, you know.’

_Ah._

‘It rarely gives people cause to complain,’ Eliot says. He has good memories of the trader, a broad-shouldered man with the physique of someone who has spent his life outdoors lifting heavy furniture on and off a cart, and, who, indeed, shares a handsome likeness with his niece.

Arielle turns to Quentin and says brightly, ‘And my uncle said you recovered from your injury in no time.’

 _Ouch._ Eliot feels Quentin freeze next to him and suppresses a grin. 

They had been in Fillory for two months when the trader arrived, both of them sick to their bones of sleeping on a hard pallet without creature comforts; eating breakfast, lunch and dinner out of one charred pan. Quentin in particular had been so excited to see pieces of civilisation: cast-iron pots and pans; carefully carved chairs with four working legs rather than the badly-bound log seats they had been using as seats; proper, gleaming knives that even Fen would have allowed herself to be caught dead with.

Quentin had taken it upon himself to start single-handedly lifting things off the cart. This had gone well until the second item, a small chair, when he’d made a funny turn and had thrown out his back. He had spent the day lying on the ground in a painful mess, sourly watching Eliot and the trader whose flirting banter increased throughout the day.

 _‘Need anything, Q?’_ _Eliot had called at the end of it, the trader tugging impatiently at his hand as he pulled him into the forest. He hadn’t heard Quentin’s answer, but Quentin was a magician and therefore NOT helpless, and it would be rude to keep the man who had saved them from this undignified form of existence waiting to receive his enchanted wagon-rod any longer._

‘Um, yeah,’ Quentin says, running his hand through his hair. ‘No injuries since… that one.’

‘Except for the one where you cut yourself with a knife.’ Eliot supplies helpfully. ‘We had to cauterize the wound, you’d never believe how much a small wound can bleed.’ 

Arielle nods, solemnly. ‘Strong men working with sharp tools. Accidents are bound to happen.’

Quentin nods, looking adorably flustered. ‘Um, yes. And it was a very sharp knife.’

‘Yes, I did think it was a bit too sharp for the potato-peeling you were doing,’ Eliot says and is rewarded with a glare.

‘Well if _somebody_ could respect the _sanctity_ of the kitchen when a man is cooking and _not_ use that moment to see if Gordon’s Third Theorem applies to Bug Explosions…’

‘Always be prepared, my scout master used to say.’

‘What, always be prepared to get attacked by a cloud of angry bugs?’

‘They were ladybirds, Q.’

‘That were on fire.’

‘And you defended yourself valiantly,’ Eliot says. It’s been a while since he’s enjoyed himself this much. 

Arielle says, ‘So will we be seeing you at the festival tomorrow? My family has a small stand by the watermill.’ She looks at Eliot and smiles warmly. ‘I’m sure my uncle would be delighted to see you.’

‘The pleasure would be ours,’ Eliot says, and then takes pity on Quentin. ‘And Quentin would be delighted to help you carry your fruit, if you’d like. His heterosexual arms are stronger than mine.’ Quentin, whose cheeks are already adoringly flushed, turns a shade redder.

‘I’m not-’ he starts. 

Arielle bows her head a little. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she says, ‘but I have a helper.’

On cue, a tall, sickeningly handsome man strides out of the brush. He is effortlessly carrying a basket of fruit that is almost the size of Quentin’s torso. 

‘This is Lunk,’ Arielle says. The man nods to the two magicians, leans forward and kisses Arielle square on the mouth in a very un-Fillorian fashion, all the while _not quite_ looking sideways at the magicians. Eliot, who is very carefully not looking at his friend, gives him a tight smile. His mouth suddenly feels very dry.

 _It has been a while, after all, and this beefcake of a man is very, very good looking._ But this is clearly a very, very straight man, who is very, very clearly marking his territory, or whatever it is that straight men do. They should probably be glad that he hasn’t whipped out his slightly-larger-than-average weener and is pissing on the rosemary bush. 

Arielle splutters and pushes her boyfriend away. ‘Lunk! You know how I feel about public- well…’ Lunk grins openly at her as she pushes a strand of red hair behind her ear and looks at him, a bit bashful, a bit exasperated, and a bit amused.

‘Sorry, beautiful,’ Lunk says. ‘You know I can never resist a gorgeous woman.’ His voice is deep but surprisingly clear for such a tall man. Eliot isn’t sure how he imagined it to be, but he feels the world would have been much fairer if Lunk had muttered “Me Lunk, me big boy,” through a mouth of bad dental care. Instead, even listening to his voice is enjoyable; there’s a hint of controlled amusement to it, as though the whole world is a joke that Lunk can see through and is willing to share this joke with other people. 

‘A very understandable impulse with a lady so fair,’ says Eliot, who has never had this impulse in his life. But Quentin doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything and Eliot Waugh will be damned if he is going to be ignored by two beautiful people. Lunk looks at him approvingly and plants another kiss on Arielle’s head, immediately doubling over laughing as Arielle elbows him in the ribs, rolling her eyes. There’s something in the easy familiarity between them that makes Eliot feel his own lack of someone to be this familiar with, as an _ache._

_And of course he left the blasted flask in the cottage._

‘Um, do you live on the farm, too?’ Quentin asks. One arm is holding the other in front of his stomach and is stroking it with his thumb; a self-soothing mechanism that seems to kick in whenever Quentin is talking to new people. Eliot looks at him fondly, which Quentin misinterprets. _Yes, on occasion I can talk to people too,_ his glare says.

'Almost. Lunk’s working on my father’s fruit farm for the season,’ Arielle explains. ‘His family moved near the Lorian border when he was young, and now he’s-’

‘- slowly getting to know the motherland again,’ Lunk says. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’

‘Full of beautiful women,’ Eliot helpfully supplies. 

Lunk smiles, eyes gazing in amusement at Arielle. ‘Just the one,’ he says, grinning. ‘Maybe two.’ He ducks as Arielle throws a peach at him. 

‘I hear you’ll be joining us at the village fest tomorrow?’

‘Um, yeah, that was the plan,’ Quentin says. ‘If the pattern is ready, by then.’ One pattern takes about half a day to make, but Eliot understands the need for Quentin to exaggerate the difficulty of the task. He almost feels the need to add _because the tiles turn to lava every other hour_ but fears that would be overkill. 

‘They’re our newest questers. They’ve already lasted longer than the last ones, they’ve been here for almost a year,’ Arielle explains.

Lunk looks interested. ‘Questers? We had those in Loria too. My brother was there when one group dug out the fabled treasure of Longbeard the Grey. The whole village got so drunk nobody kept track of days and someone had to run to the next town to reset our calendar.’

Everyone laughs. 

‘It did make the village rich though,’ Lunk adds. ‘Which was nice - less starvation all round.’ 

There’s a delicate pause.

‘This, yeah, it’s not, treasure,’ Quentin says. He glances at Eliot. Everyone around the area knows there’s a quest surrounding the mosaic, and most seem to know what it is; what everyone seems hazy about is the prize you get for solving it, presumably because Fillorians accept that one goes on a quest the same way people in medieval times understood the need to go on pilgrimages or become hermits. The fact that all of this was created by two gods who are very much alive and walking around is helpful. 

Still, it’s also helpful to make the prize less attractive. Quentin and Eliot agreed early on that solving this quest while having to fight off a crowd of determined other questers would just be, well, a tad annoying.

‘We know the prize isn’t money or gold,’ Eliot says firmly, as Lunk raises an eyebrow. ‘That much is clear.’

‘It’s probably something like power over time,’ Arielle says. Eliot looks at her in surprise; this seems like an oddly specific fact for a Fillorian fruit-farmer to know. Arielle flushes. ‘My grandma said it was. She said people forget what all this was about, but she remembers what _her_ grandmother told her. You get it once, you create the beauty of all life, right?’ 

Lunk laughs. ‘Oh, time magic! We had one of those near my cousin’s village. If you caught the Wildebeest of the Northern Marshes, time would never be a problem for you again, they said. Of course, the person who caught it just ended up stuck with something that looked like an angry horse that brayed at him whenever he was about to be late for something. More of a curse than a treasure, if you ask me.’ 

Again, laughter dispels the tension. It’s hard not to be charmed by Lunk’s sense of humor, and there’s something cynical about the idea of the prize not being what they expect. The thought has occured to Eliot before; that this is just the quest’s way of fucking with them a bit, and that the beauty of all life will be revealed to one of them when they find just the right herb to relieve them from a bout of constipation, or something like that. 

Quentin looks a bit troubled, though. ‘Yeah, well, we need it. For our friends,’ he says, and then blinks and coughs. Eliot looks away. It’s been almost a year.

_Almost a year._

_Almost a year without decent clothing, normal bedding, without an infinite supply of willing young men to share it with._

_A year without his Bambi._

Years like that should be burnt from existence.

Arielle glances from one to the other, then says briskly, ‘Come on, Lunk, best leave these gentlemen to their quest. Which I’m sure will be over soon,’ she adds.

‘Yeah, the Wildebeest only took about ten years to find- I’m joking, woman!’ Lunk straightens up and suddenly turns solemn. ‘I hope you find what you are looking for. And I hope you find it soon.’

‘And we both hope we’ll see you at the festival tomorrow. Look for our stand near the waterwheel.’ Arielle grabs Lunk’s hand, and with a last wave, they are off. 

There’s a silence when they both leave. Without a word, Quentin crouches down and starts rearranging the tiles. Eliot turns around and heads for the cottage. As he reaches for the cottage door, he thinks for a moment that Quentin has said something, but when he turns around the other magician is still bent over the tiles with his back to him. Eliot takes a deep breath and opens the cottage door.

Liquid courage awaits. 

  
  
  



	2. Eliot buys a brooch, Quentin trips on nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are met, conversations are had, new clothes are a Thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning: chapter contains some less-than-nice childhood memories, including a homophobic slur.

It’s not just that they are almost permanently starved for company and will take any excuse to pounce on a passing vagabond or trader and engage them in conversation. 

It’s also that festivals in Fillory are surprisingly enjoyable once you get over the fact that Fillorians seem to celebrate every whimsical and random milestone in a year with unironic enthusiasm. 

Okay, so some of the religious traditions can fuck off  _ (Eliot shudderingly remembers one celebration which featured dark-robed hermits running around the village, chanting and flicking drops of anointed goats’ urine at people) _ , but considering the remoteness of the blasted mosaic in relation to what passes as civilisation in these parts, it could have been a lot worse.

It helps that their nearest village is nestled on the road between two larger towns, one of them a trading port, the other en route to Castle Whitspire. Consequently, the wandering circuses and entertainment troupes are actually pretty decent. Also, for whatever reason, Eliot remembers that Ember and Umber’s Umbilical Separation Festival is accompanied by plenty of hog roasts and not terrible Fillorian elderberry wine, and if there’s one thing Eliot can do with is food that’s not too vegetarian in his one hand and fermented drink in the other. 

_ Meat and alcohol. A staple diet for the farmer’s boy. _

‘Arche’s Firefly Spell,’ he says, drowning out his thoughts. ‘Suitably impressive and enduring.’ 

Quentin’s face is slightly flushed from the pace, but after a year of traveling this distance every few weeks to stock up on fresh produce, he has stopped complaining about Eliot’s legs ‘being like, 100 yards long’, and is keeping up. 

(Or perhaps Eliot has slowed down. It’s hard to tell.)

‘Um, actually,’ Quentin says, ‘It’s mostly sort of impressive because two times out of three, someone’s house catches fire. How about Meyricray’s Burning Homunculus?’

Eliot shakes his head, benevolently. ‘Ah, my little first year. That spell has a habit of turning sentient and running off in a panic, which is the last thing a village made of wooden houses needs _. _ Okay, Arche’s Firefly Spell in combination with the Water Cloud spell everyone pranks freshmen with in the summer.’ He has fond memories of that spell which transforms the campus into an unofficial wet t-shirt contest in the first warm days of summer.

Quentin, the brat, actually  _ snorts  _ at Eliot’s suggestion. ‘You mean, the cloud of localised rainfall that drenches someone until it gets bored and starts harassing everyone else? They’d banish us from the town forever.’

‘It doesn’t behave that way if you start casting the night before.’ 

‘Which we did not do.’ 

‘True. We could just chance it.’ 

‘And have a burning house at one end of the village and someone chased by their personal cloud of rain at the other end of the village? Sounds like a festival the grandchildren will remember.’

‘You’re so negative, Coldwater.’

‘I’m perfectly-’ 

But whatever Quentin is perfect in is lost to the world. Eliot turns just in time to see his friend trip, arms flailing for a moment in an attempt to defy gravity. There’s a short struggle (predictably won by gravity), and as far as a comic fall goes, this one is perfectly executed. Once he’s completely sure his friend hasn’t actually hurt himself, Eliot gives it an appreciative clap. 

‘Coldwater! You know your High King doesn’t require you to prostrate yourself before him.’

Quentin spits out some earth, pushes his head up and glares at him. ‘Thanks, Eliot. Kind of you to remind me. Help me up,’ he says, then notices his leg. ‘Oh shit.’

The seams on the left side of his jeans have split, leaving a large hole from the knee down to the ankle, from which a leg is baring its skin to the elements. Eliot takes a breath before crouching down, but it’s just the jeans that have ripped, not Quentin’s skin. He reaches out to - do what, exactly? 

‘Can you fix it?’ Quentin asks, sitting up. He tries brushing off some dirt and before realising that due to the state of his hands, this is just introducing dirt to its friend, More Dirt, and sighs. ‘Just help me magically sew them up or something.’ 

Eliot fingers the edges of the seams. ‘Q, the thread-count in these is so low that we should be celebrating the fact that you aren’t walking around in your birthday suit. Which spell have you been using to wash these?’ 

‘Same as yours. I think. The tut that starts with Pendulum’s first.’ 

Eliot gives him an incredulous look. ‘That’s what you’ve been using? That’s for deep-cleaning curtains!’ 

‘People clean-? Whatever. Come on El, just help me patch this up! It’s just clothing-’ Eliot stares at Quentin, who quickly realizes his mistake and backtracks, ‘- I mean, it’s clothing, but we can glue them together with a Popper’s Quick-Fix, or something?’

‘Glue. Jeans.’ Eliot looks like someone who has just been told that puppies are a delicious addition to a summer barbecue. Quentin sighs. 

‘Look, just do whatever it takes so this item of clothing no longer offends you.’

‘We could set it on fire,’ Eliot suggests. 

‘- and does not offend the people on whom we rely on for food and wine, please. I’m sure running around without pants would do that.’

‘No.’ Eliot stands up decisively. Quentin stares up at him. It isn’t often, but this is one of those times Eliot looks to all intents and purposes like the High King of Fillory he was supposed to be.

‘There are times in a man’s life when he has to sacrifice something to the greater good,’ he says. Quentin opens his mouth, and Eliot quickly places a finger on his lips. ‘Today is such a day.’ 

Quentin groans. ‘El…

‘This isn’t up for discussion, Coldwater. We are buying you Fillorian pants.’

_ ‘You  _ hate Fillorian clothing,’ Quentin says, grumpily. 

‘No, I hate what our local traders try to sell us. We are currently heading to a rather large festival, which will have a bigger selection. Something  _ adequate _ will be found.’  _ And frankly, it can’t be much worse than what you’ve been wearing this past year _ . 

‘Fine, whatever,’ Quentin says, rolling his eyes.

‘That’s my aesthetically challenged friend,’ Eliot says, dusting off Quentin’s sleeve. Quentin pulls away in a huff, and Eliot’s finger gets stuck in a piece of fabric. There’s another ripping sound, followed by a pause.

‘Let’s make that a new Fillorian wardrobe, shall we?’ Eliot says, delicately maneuvering his friend towards the village, and fondly considering that an outraged Quentin is still as adorable as an angry puppy. It’s all he can do not to pat Quentin’s mop of hair; but then there are days when Eliot wants to touch that mop of hair, run his hands through it, pick a strand of errant hair and push it behind Quentin’s ear, and he doesn’t succumb to that weakness either. Almost automatically, Eliot feels the reassuring weight of the flask in his jacket pocket. 

_ Not far to the village.  _

***

As soon as they arrive at the village square Eliot knows coming here was a Good Call. Colourful tents line the edge of the field, leaving space for a small ring of multicoloured circus caravans and a makeshift stage (currently empty) set off by drapes of red cloth in the middle of the field. 

When they first arrived in Fillory, Eliot would have called Fillorians at best a _boring agricultural society of backwards farmers_ , at worst _his_ _personal nightmare of old-fashioned yonks with butt fuck nothing to do_. After almost a year he has to grudgingly admit that Fillory is more than that. Fillorians are also traders, travelers; there is an entire folk who roam the countryside in caravans, buying and selling various nick-nacks, on whom at least a third of the economy seems to depend. Moreover, it is usual for young Fillorians of all genders not to stay in their birth village but to spend a couple of years roaming around, seeing the sights and learning a trade. 

The result of this is that Eliot, to his surprise, has found most Fillorians quite open and accepting towards strangers - and, annoyingly, highly accomplished and ruthless when it comes to bartering goods. 

They spot the waterwheel from across the field and make their way towards it. Arielle’s waving at them from a stand filled with baskets of various fruit, as well as, Eliot is happy to see, bottles of Fillorian fruit spirits. Quentin eyes Eliot warily when he spots this, but then both of them are taken aback when Arielle emerges from the stall wearing a black one-piece trouser-suit; something that looks as flattering as much as it looks entirely un-Fillorian. It makes her stand out from the rest of the family, who are watching her enthusiastic waves with a kind of resigned bemusement one reserves for the one child who will do her own thing no matter what.

‘Another knife accident?’ Arielle says, glancing at Quentin’s clothes.

‘Bear,’ Quentin says before Eliot can open his mouth. ‘Was jealous of my sense of fashion.’ Eliot raises an eyebrow; Quentin is smiling broadly, already in an entirely different mood than he was when they entered the village. Eliot mentally rolls his eyes. 

_ Ugh, men. In particular, straight men.  _

‘Perhaps you can visit that bear, too, Ari,’ a large man, wearing an apron, quips. He has hair as red as Arielle’s’s and a large red beard that does nothing to conceal a warm, wide grin. Arielle - Arie - rolls her eyes at him.

‘Even Lunk says-’

Arie interrupts him. ‘My father, the two magicians Eliot and Quentin, who are working on solving the enchanted quest up yonder. Silas has spoken well of them, remember?’

‘Of one of them, at least,’ Arielle’s father says, grinning at Eliot. ‘Couldn’t get him to shut up about you and your… soup ladle, was it?’ One of the older women behind Arie’s father tuts disapprovingly. ’So what say you, magician, will you introduce my daughter to the bear who made such an impression on your friend?’

Eliot is fairly certain Arielle’s father does not know the Earth connotation for bear, but there’s something about that grin and those sharp eyes. So he swallows the response he wants to make and instead says, ‘That, good sir, would be a crime against fashion. All fashionable women wear a trouser suit since Gigi Hadid wore a green tailored suit to Marc Jacob’s wedding in New York.’

‘Oh shit,’ Quentin mutters, but Eliot Waugh is unstoppable. 

‘And Jenna Coleman wore a matching yellow bag with her Gucci outfit, and the Duchess of Sussex-’

‘See, father, I am wearing what a Duchess is wearing,’ Arielle interrupts. Her father sighs.

‘It does mean she doesn’t have to pull up her frock when she’s stepping over pig shit, I’ll give you that.’ 

‘Kinda unnatural to see a woman wearing it though,’ says one of the younger hands, who has been turning a large crank attached to a vat with one hand, while inexpertly chewing an apple with the other. There’s a kind of collective groan from the rest of the family. 

‘Ranulph, for the love of the three-family village your mother married into-’ Arielle’s father starts, but Arie has already risen to her full height and has taken a deep breath.

‘Listen,  _ cousin-’ _

What happens next is that the family - and Quentin and Eliot - are treated to an extended and extremely eloquent speech about how everyone -  _ everyone, especially women  _ \- has a right to wear garments that are both  _ suitable _ and  _ practical,  _ and how everyone -  _ but especially backward, narrow-sighted menfolk - _ can basically suck it (okay, Eliot’s paraphrasing). Arielle’s family - especially young Ranulph, whose eyes are as wide as saucers - are listening in what looks like respectful terror. 

‘Does Margo have any redheads in the family?’ Quentin says quietly to Eliot. 

‘You mean, red-haired people from another world where they are mostly farmers? She hasn’t mentioned it.’ Eliot’s close to tears. There’s something about watching a powerful woman speak her truth, as Margo would have said, that makes him miss his Bambi more than ever. He doesn’t think Fillorians are strong on gender politics, and he definitely hasn’t heard the word “patriarchy” used yet, but  _ years-of-being-ruled-by-incompetent-men-focusing-on-what’s-best-for-themselves-and-no-one-else  _ sounds an awful lot like it. 

He knows Margo would have approved of this. Heck, she would have stood behind Arielle, accentuating her speech with nods and sharp points, and if anyone had  _ dared _ look away she would have walked over and threatened to castrate them, whatever gender they were. 

At some point, when Ranulph has started to choke on a piece of apple and the rest of the family seem sufficiently subdued, Eliot turns to Arielle and asks, nonchalantly, ‘So, who is your exquisite tailor? And would they be willing to create something suitable for my friend here?’

Arielle’s face is a bit flushed, but she smoothes her trouser suit down and calmly says, ‘Oh, her name is Mistress Sylvia; a traveling tailor, but she always comes to the festival.’ Behind Arielle, Arielle’s father has started applying something akin to the Heimlich maneuver to Ranulph. 

Eliot says, ‘We would be most interested in seeing which other wares this excellent person might have in store. Quentin is most in need of something adequate.’ 

‘I will gladly introduce you. Ranulph can take over my spot.’ As they let themselves be led away from the stand, Eliot turns around surreptitiously and makes a quick  _ tut _ with his right hand. There’s a sound like a toilet being unclogged by a toilet plunger, followed by a sound of someone drawing a gasping breath, and followed by ironic applause from one of the older women. 

***

The tailor is a woman in her 40s or 50s; it’s hard to tell with Fillorians who spend all their time living outdoors. What is not surprising is how elegant-looking she is for someone with a mobile lifestyle, and how fiercely alive she seems. Her eyes are a deep brown and crinkly around the edges,  _ laughter-crinkles,  _ Eliot is surprised to hear this thought in his mother’s voice, and her freckled face is framed by a mop of wild, curly hair held back with a red hair scarf. She’s even wearing blue eye shadow - something Eliot has seen on very few Fillorians without an official function - and clothes that scream  _ Gypsy Queen _ . Altogether, it’s a very startling, powerful look, and standing next to her feels a bit like standing next to Margo - one has the feeling of being near someone of royalty.

Quentin must also be feeling this, because he adopts the same manner he adopts around Margo; somewhat hesitant, a bit shy, and honest surprise that someone as, well, amazing as this, is taking an interest in him. 

And take an interest in him, she does.

‘Arie! What a handsome man you have brought me!’ And, turning to Quentin, ‘Are you here to look at my new selection of earrings? They’re quite stunning.’ 

Quentin blinks, opens and shuts his mouth. Eliot thinks that certain earrings - maybe one nice stud - would suit Quentin very well but also knows not to push his luck; it’s a miracle Quentin has agreed to look for new clothes. This is all a matter of timing: if the tailor can get Q measured up Eliot probably has 10 minutes to select a couple of items before Quentin’s energy starts flagging and he starts getting grumpy, but they need to leave with  _ something _ today, at least. 

‘We need something to make this man look human again,’ Eliot says quickly. ‘He had an unfortunate accident-

‘- on the road,’ Quentin says at the same time as Eliot says, ‘-buying clothes unsupervised.’ Quentin glares at him. Sylvia cackles. 

‘Men should never be unsupervised, my mother always said.’ She brandishes a measuring tape from her pocket and starts taking Quentin’s measurements in practiced moves. Waist, torso, hip… She frowns when she sees Quentin’s torn leg. ‘Where I’m from, they’d never let you walk around in these kinds of pants.’

Eliot blinks. He can’t quite place the accent, but perhaps…

‘You’re Lorian?’ he hazards. It is, after all, the only other kingdom he’s familiar with, although she sounds nothing like Idri or Ess.

‘I’ve been to lots of places,’ the tailor says. ‘Most folks can’t place my accent. I’ll give you a coin if you do.’ She tugs on Quentin’s trouser leg and smiles at him. ‘You need to stand fully on one foot, dear, so I can measure your height.  _ Fully _ .’

Quentin, looking like a little boy getting dressed, cautiously moves his weight more to his left side, with the result that he is now standing lopsided in the other direction. The tailor sighs.

‘Lovely,’ she says, straightening up and patting Quentin’s shoulder as though he has just passed a very arduous task. ‘Well, you are a gorgeous human being. Is he not lovely?’ 

She’s looking straight at Eliot. There’s something very Margo-like in her look. 

_ Oh, come on. You’ve known me for what, a minute?  _

‘He cleans up well,’ Eliot says, carefully noncommittal. ‘About that -’

‘Yes, we’ll make sure he’s his normal sparkling self,’ the tailor says curtly, beginning to hold up various pieces of fabric next to Quentin’s face, critically comparing his complexion to the fabric’s hue.

‘Um, actually I’m pretty sure I’m not the kind of person who sparkles,’ Quentin says as he’s pivoted on the spot. He looks over his shoulder and catches Eliot’s eyes, a little desperately. ‘Tell her I’m not a sparkly person, El!’

‘He is, in his heart,’ Eliot reassures the tailor, and goes to inspect the inside of the caravan amidst Quentin’s muffled protests. 

He’s reassured that this was the right place to come to almost immediately. The caravan is a quiet place of delight: none of the coarse fabrics with the low thread count and bad dyes Eliot is used to seeing thrown in a trunk with other random odds and ends. Clearly, no tailor hangs up the best fabrics so people can brush against them with their oily hands and sweaty bodies, but even the things hanging on display - on wooden mannequins and fold-out rails - looks qualitatively better and more  _ interesting  _ than the clothes Eliot has seen in quite a while. If Eliot weren’t so deeply suspicious of Fillorian peasant garb he could almost imagine himself finding something he might wear.

‘It’s an amazing selection, isn’t it?’ Arie has appeared in the entrance of the caravan. She smiles. ‘It’s not to everyone’s taste, but Sylvia’s never given me anything I’m not comfortable with.’ She seems honestly concerned that she has brought them to the right place, something Eliot finds touching

‘I find this… very promising,’ Eliot says sincerely. He catches sight of a coat - an emerald coat with an actual waistline and an asymmetric fold in the middle.  _ It’s actually not too bad. _ ‘I mean, you wouldn’t find this where we’re from,’ he says, gesturing at it. ‘But anything that isn’t the usual potato-sack variety is great.’

The temperature drops a little.

‘Not that there’s anything wrong with having to wear a sack of potatoes,’ he adds hurriedly, suddenly remembering Arie’s family, some of whom had clearly been wearing garments that had  _ Grandma’s Best Sunday clothes  _ stamped all over them. 

Arie folds her arms. ‘We’ve had a few bad winters,’ she says. ‘Clothing has not been a priority for folks. Even when there is money.’

Eliot doesn’t want to challenge her, but he knows his fashion and he can’t help flickering over her trouser suit, which looks amazing and, well, as far he can judge,  _ hot _ , even in the half-light of the caravan. 

Arielle misreads his look and sighs. 

‘I know, right? There are better ways to spend your coin. That’s what my mother said too.’

‘And yet you bought it?’ Eliot says. He’s not judging. He’s curious. It’s been a while since he’s met someone who would prioritise clothing over something else. (Although he’s not sure what else there would be to buy in Fillory. More chickens?)    
_ (Stupid thought - there’s a variety of vegetable alcohol out there.) _

Arielle sighs. ‘Yes. I needed to celebrate, you see. Because my plan worked.’ Her smile becomes slightly sardonic as she meets Eliot’s gaze, as though she’s told people of this accomplishment before and did not receive an appropriate response. There’s something incredibly stubborn, Margo-like about her look, and Eliot decides at that moment that he really likes her. 

‘I’m a connoisseur of great plans,’ he says reassuringly. ‘That’s why I’m busy day after day, laying out exquisite tiles while other people do boring things like make sure there’s enough food on the table or fighting dragons.’

Arielle snorts. ‘Sure. You’re  _ only  _ a magician.’

_ Ah. So that's where this is coming from.  _ Once you get to the Fillorian peasant level there isn’t much hierarchy. Fiefdom is luckily unheard of, and most FIllorians are owners and traders of something or another. Oh, one farmer might have a bigger field than the next, but altogether, everyone seems to be very much engaged in a “let’s not all make this harder and starve” mentality, and everyone seems to help out when help is needed, in the full understanding that even the tavern owner needs to work on the fields at least some days a year if he wants to make sure that he has something to sell his customers.

But magicians. Well. Magicians are rare, and have special status. Which is one of the reasons he and Q have gone out of their way to not advertise their services too much. Special status attracts attention. Of the good and less good kind. 

But Arie’s uncle has met Eliot. And of course the villagers more or less have a good idea who the two menfolk solving their quest are, given that these menfolk are paying for extra produce with small charms and minor magical mendings. 

Also, it doesn’t hurt to occasionally exaggerate their prowess at battle-magic to the novice would-be-quester at the village inn, of course. 

Still. Arie’s comment is a good reminder why Eliot and Quentin need to keep drinking at the village inn, to make sure there isn’t too much  _ othering _ going on that might lead people to feel jealous or have wrong ideas.

Eliot forces his body to relax and smiles at Arie in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner. ‘If magicians didn’t sometimes have good plans, we would have all gotten stuck on primal spells, and there are only so many swords you can slide into or out of stones.’ This obviously makes no sense to Arie, and is so historically inaccurate that Brakebills’ History of Magic teacher would hang his head and cry, but Arie nods, as though understanding. Just to be sure, Eliot adds some flattery. ‘I’d be honoured to hear what your idea was.’

Arie picks up a hat with a wide rim and a feather fedora, turns it around in her hands, this way and that. ‘A few years ago,’ she says, ‘I convinced my father that a second fruit stand set up on the Trader Road ‘( _ the road between the two towns, the one this village is located on, Eliot’s mind translates)’ _ would bring us additional coin. We already had a regular stand at the market, and not many people to spare, so it was an... unusual choice. But I made some calculations and showed him, and he let me try for a month.’

‘And now,’ she says, and her voice is full of pride, ‘My great aunt Dulcy and my cousin Bram take care of it. Dulcy’s got the shakes, which means she can’t do housework anyway, but her mind is sharp and she knows her numbers, and Bram’s not the same since he had that accident as a child, but he’s a large man who loves Dulcy and won’t let anything happen to her. Lunk and I were on our way to restock the stand when we came across you yesterday.’ 

_ Peaches and plums.  _ Eliot had wondered. It hadn’t made sense at the time; there was no orchard near them and the nearest village was still an hour away - too long if you wanted to transport fruit that bruises easily. But cut through the forest, and you were slap-bang on Trader’s Road. A frequented road - or enough for the occasional hungry trader to be refreshed with fruit, and presumably fruitful spirits.

He finds himself saying, ‘And after a few years, you had enough money to buy this piece of magnificence? _ ’ _

At this, Arielle just stares at him for a moment. Open mouthed. And then laughs.

‘ _ No _ , you dolt. We had enough to buy a new dairy cow in the first year!  _ This _ is from the coin my father gave me after selling the milk and saving up for a third one - which we’re buying next week.’ She says this proudly as though Eliot has a total understanding of Fillorian livestock economics. 

(Well, the joke’s on her. Eliot’s family have always been proud corn and soy farmers. Livestock is seen as a necessary evil - something has to eat the soy, and a steak is delicious - but all-in-all, livestock is seen as unnecessarily complicated and cumbersome compared to the agricultural sector, and is usually looked down on.)

(Also, “dolt”?)

Arie has her chin held high and her arms are still folded, and she’s fixing Eliot with the same look that came to her face when she began to tell the story of her additional coin. Eliot recognises this stance. It’s the same stance he adopted when he had to tell his parents that, yes, a liberal arts college in New York had not only accepted him but was giving him a full ride. 

_ Yes, even though he didn’t play football. Even though he couldn’t tell different types of corn apart if they had suddenly gained sentience and sang Memory from Cats.  _

It’s the Look of someone who has some basic intelligence, a lot to give, and lives in a world that is set up to ignore all of that. 

Eliot suddenly remembers his brother’s voice, taunting him.  _ ‘They took pity on him because he’s a faggot. _ ’

He realises that besides the tailor and Arie, he hasn’t seen much of Fillorian women, and all his trading has been almost uniquely with men. Even male centaurs are a more common sight than female centaurs. And if anyone in any conversation is going to open their mouth, nine times out of ten it will be someone who identifies, at least outwardly, as male. 

So presumably, a woman having a business idea that is implemented and actually works is actually a Big Thing around here. Especially given all the little steps that need to be taken. 

About that...

‘Your father seems like the kind of man who’d support ideas like that,’ he says, testing the waters. 

Arielle smiles sweetly. ‘I am my father’s eldest daughter and his favourite. I told him about the plan every evening after dinner until six full moons passed, and he only listened to me when I told him I would stop eating until he gave it a try, and my mother told him he needed to listen to me because not eating would decrease my chance of marrying someone even more.’

_ Ah _ . 

Eliot suddenly remembers how in their first month in Fillory, Margo slept with a different courtier every other night, which seemed excessive even for her standards. He remembers Margo’s stories of casual misogyny when they lived together at Brakebills - ‘ _ you should have been there, El, he repeated exactly what I said and everyone agreed!’ -  _ and then imagines her coming to a place like Fillory, where Women’s Studies presumably consisted of listing the two activities women were seen as good for, over and over again: housework and raising children. 

Come to think of it, it’s sort of a miracle that Margo didn’t burn the place to the ground on the first day. 

_ He should tell Arie… just that. And how much he admires her for setting up what is effectively her own business. How much he likes her style.  _

He wants to tell her that Margo, his soulmate, would have pronounced her  _ interesting _ and  _ Ibiza-worthy _ , one of the biggest compliments ever to come from Margo herself. 

‘When I lived at home,’ he finds himself saying instead, ‘I was the youngest of three brothers. They were all bigger than me - real football jockeys - like horse men,’ he hazards; this is the closest physique he can compare them to. Arielle nods. ‘Anyway. My parents bought clothing for my oldest brother, and then my second-oldest brother would wear it, and then the third, and by the time I got to it, it was clear I didn’t play football and never would, and I would also never own clothing that wasn’t three sizes too big and smelled like a locker room.’

_ On a good day, he feels like adding. Turns out the aggregate smell of three older brothers storing clothing in them was something that would make corn wilt. _

‘One day I realised that my high school had a sewing club. And that this club got the hand-me-downs from church sales. Nothing special, but things you don’t sell at church - well. Let’s say some of the stuff was interesting.’ He has fond memories of digging through a brown sack of stuff that someone’s deceased uncle had donated and realising that the uncle had enjoyed a very fruitful and enthusiastic life in a certain discrete men’s club in Fort Wayne. Not that it had been of much use. His school sewing machine didn’t have the right needles that could get through leather. 

(Not that he hadn’t tried.)

‘After that I had my own clothes. And they were different. And most people didn’t like them. Hell - our pastor actually complained to my father about what he called  _ the thing in pink _ . It wasn’t. It was rose coloured.’ Arie nods again, although he’s pretty sure she’s only getting about 50% of what he’s saying but is too polite to tell him that. 

‘But people heard I was good with a needle, and then someone asked me to make their prom dress, and then, well, there was coin. As you said.’

‘And after your father took the coin, did he say he was proud of you?’ Arielle asks. She seems a bit more relaxed now, though her arms are still folded.

Eliot hesitates, as he always does, when asked a direct question about his family. 

‘Well, not pride. But he must have been impressed.’ 

In fact, Eliot knows his father was so impressed that next to giving his son the hiding of the century, Eliot had been forced to eat dinners in the shed, and it had cost him several early mornings of hurried sewing to make up for that lost weekend. 

His back had hurt for weeks.

But he had managed to keep most of the money. Mostly because he had managed to squirrel it away behind his parents’ backs. Which Arie clearly could not. And probably wouldn’t, because she knew how much her family’s livelihood depended on additional income. 

_ It would take a real shit like Eliot to hide money from a family that couldn’t afford real clothes for the second or third son.  _

‘Fillorian men don’t sew. It’s women’s work. It’s good that where you are from, things are different,’ Arie says quietly. 

‘Indiana men don’t sew either,’ Eliot says wryly. He doesn’t have to add: but I do. 

_ Okay, did. Electric sewing machines are few and far between in Fillory, and he hasn’t quite worked out how or where to get his hands on one of the manual pedal ones his grandma used to use, or if those even exist. _

He opens his mouth to say something else, but suddenly he’s not sure what the moral of the story is. Is there one? Here’s a woman who has had to basically threaten her family with a hunger strike so that they would listen to an idea that made complete sense. He’s trying to say something else - maybe create some kind of overarching theme, something that links them together - and is just realising to his horror that,  _ there is none,  _ when there’s a whistling sound outside and his mind does a u-turn as it realises that  _ yes, that was Quentin whistling in appreciation of something. _

It is a sound that has not been heard in almost a year.

Arielle’s faster than him and is already blocking the exit to the caravan, appreciatively clapping her hands at the sight of something before her. Eliot is right behind her, looking and -

And just stands. Still.

It’s clearly Quentin, smiling broadly at his reflection in the mirror that the tailor is holding, and he turns around at the sound of Arie’s hands clapping, his eyes catching Eliot’s-

And Eliot’s heart.

Just stops.

Quentin’s wearing a dark grey tunic tucked into his linen pants with slightly billowy sleeves. The tunic is held in place by what looks like the Fillorian equivalent of red suspenders. It’s a simple yet elegant detail - one that makes all the difference as the tunic now accentuates Quentin’s figure without making him look too trim. It reminds Eliot of what he has most admired in his favourite fashion designers: the hint of a figure rather than overt display of flesh, a promise of more, something to be unwrapped. It’s not just that the clothes suit Quentin. It’s as though they’re a part of him now, and the effect is of seeing Quentin, who is somehow more  _ there _ ,  _ somehow more real.  _

Eliot is suddenly desperate for a drink.

Arielle claps her hands. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, Sylvia! Wait, I have just the thing.’ She pulls out the knot on the top of her head, shakes out her hair, and skips over to Quentin, who winces as she pulls his hair together into a man-bun. ‘There,’ she says, grinning, admiring her work. ‘Wow, I didn’t realise your face was…’

‘-that symmetrical,’ Eliot says. He suddenly realises that he’s frozen, standing on one foot, and forces his body to move into a more relaxed posture. He’s sure he’s miserably failing at it.

_ Quentin. So much Quentin.  _

How the fuck is he supposed to survive another week with a Quentin who looks as perfect as  _ this _ working next to him?

‘Isn’t it great, El?’ Quentin gushes. ‘She told me I’m lucky I have shorter legs, most Fillorian men don’t fit in this stuff.’

Anywhere else this would sound like an insult, but Eliot is suddenly 100% sure the tailor means it as a compliment. He stares at her, lost for words.

The tailor laughs. ‘You’re lucky you have a man who listens to reason,’ she says. ‘He must be wonderful to buy clothes with.’

Which shuts Eliot right back up.

‘I have it on good authority that this man has never set foot in a clothing store and would not, even if his life depended on it,’ he says finally when he trusts his voice to start working again.  _ Never mind that he can suddenly actually imagine taking Quentin shopping. To some of the shops Eliot knows well in the East Village.  _

_ Oh my gods... _

Quentin nods, unselfconsciously, still admiring himself in the mirror. ‘That’s true. My best friend Julia used to buy clothes for me. Before that I’d basically wear a black hoodie with black jeans.’

_ Eliot suddenly realises what a terrible mistake Timeline 40 was without a Julia at Brakebills. _

‘Well, those days are over,’ Arielle says firmly. 

It’s true. There is no way Quentin is ever allowed to wear clothes designed on Earth again. Eliot mentally apologises to Julia, but if she ever tries to go shopping for him again, he will personally see that she is banished into another dimension.

Sylvia gets back to business. ‘Okay, a few more items, and that makes a full wardrobe. That’s what you said you needed, right?’

‘Right,’ Quentin says, who has never uttered words like that in his life. Clearly this is part of the new Quentin, the one that was summoned to Fillory solely for the purpose of torturing Eliot.

‘Arie, help me?’ The tailor and Arie disappear into the caravan. There’s a silence, which Eliot feels compelled to break.

‘You look… amazing,’ he says. He carefully does not say:  _ you’re the most good looking man I have ever seen.  _

Quentin, who has been admiring a detail on the back of his shirt, smiles softly. ‘Thank you.’ 

There’s a pause. Then Quentin says, ‘Do you know what I like most about looking like this?’

‘The fact that when it gets dark it’ll look like you’re wearing black?’ 

‘No,’ Quentin laughs, and even here there is a difference; now his gaze is looking straight at Eliot, confident and happy. ‘It’s because now I can look almost as good as you.’

_ Almost as good as you. _ Eliot’s mouth is dry.

‘Quentin,’ he begins, but Quentin interrupts.

‘Look, I know, given…  _ a choice…  _ you wouldn’t want to be stuck with me. I remember your entourage of handsome boys at the cottage, and Margo, and basically, only the prettiest people I’d ever seen, being with you, like, constantly, and here you’ve just got… me.’ Eliot catches his breath. For the millionth time today, he’s at loss of what to say. 

_ Maybe he could just go with a primal scream? _

‘But maybe if I look like this…’ Quentin says, and suddenly, goddammit, he actually  _ does a twirl on one foot _ ,  _ how is it that even his stance is suddenly more confident _ ,  _ this is ridiculous, what did Eliot do to deserve this? _ ‘Maybe if I look like this, it won’t be so bad.’ He smiles at Eliot briefly, and then turns to the mirror and begins to button up the asymmetrical brown jacket the tailor has left for him.

Eliot opens his mouth and shuts it again.

Because.    
  
What can you say to that kind of insanity?

‘You’re the most gorgeous man alive.’ The words are out before he can stop himself. 

They don’t have the desired effect.

Quentin laughs. ‘Sure, El,’ he says easily. 

For some reason, this infuriates Eliot to no end. ‘No, listen, you… you dolt…’ he starts to say ( _ God, what’s wrong with his voice today? Also, ‘dolt’? Again?) _ , when something hits him on the side of the head.

He catches it by reflex, staring at it dumbfounded. It’s a shirt, teal, with a soft flower pattern, sprinkled across the shirt like hazy stars behind a field of mist. 

Something primal in Eliot’s mind takes over. ‘Uh, no, that won’t suit Quentin. It’s much too light for his complexion.’

‘Actually, I used to own something like this, El,’ Quentin says, glancing at it. ‘People used to say they liked it.’

‘You can’t listen to everything your mother tells you, darling,’ says Arielle.

Quentin shoots her a glance, and suddenly seems more normal, more old-Quentin-like. ‘Um, it was my best friend, I’ll let you know. She has impeccable taste.’ 

‘She was pretty good,’ Eliot mutters at Arie’s raised eyebrow. He can’t help asking though, ‘Was it spontaneous praise or an encouraging, fixed smile when you told her this was your new favourite outfit?’  Quentin raises his finger, opens his mouth, closes his mouth and glares at Eliot. 

Arie smiles. There is glint in her eyes. 

‘Eliot, the shirt isn’t for Quentin. Come on, Eliot, you’re up next.’ And then, before Eliot knows what is happening, the unthinkable happens.  _ Someone is selecting clothes for him. _

Since moving - or rather, running as fast as he could - to New York,  _ nobody  _ has told Eliot Waugh how to dress. Except for Margo, but he can make an exception for that on account of them both sharing a soul. 

So as he is about to begin the first in a series of battle magic, he happens to glance at himself in the mirror, and sees that the teal perfectly matches his eyes. And then he looks at the quality of the stitches. And the asymmetrical cut. 

It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d pick out.  _ Because he’d look fucking great in it.  _

‘How did you-’ he starts, then coughs. The tailor has appeared behind Arielle, and the two women are high-fiving each other, clearly totally not caring about the torrent of feelings currently coursing through Eliot’s body.

Fortunately Quentin interrupts in an utterly adorable  _ who-let-this-nerd-in-and-why-isn’t-anyone-restraining-him _ kind of way.

‘It’s a nice shade of green. It’s cut in a weird shape though, perhaps we can get a discount?’

‘I apologise wholeheartedly for my companion, he was raised by apes,’ Eliot says automatically, and this breaks the spell completely.

‘Eliot, mirror’s over there. Try it on, without your-’

‘I know, I know,’ Eliot says. He’s already undoing the buttons on his faded vest. 

***

It’s several hours later. Both Eliot and Quentin have been measured, adorned, dressed, undressed, and dressed again. Quentin looks overwhelmed, tired, and very satisfied. He’s sitting on the steps next to Arie chatting comfortably, as the tailor - Sylvia - and Eliot go over the last details of Eliot’s cotehardie. 

‘- and the brooch is multifunctional. See, you can use it to clip up your collar, or clip on the scarf.’

‘I see,’ Eliot murmurs, clipping on the scarf and examining himself in the mirror. He no longer protests when Sylvia hands him something. He has long accepted that they are, truly, in the hands of a Master. 

He stares at his reflection and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. He needs a haircut. What would Bambi say? He also needs a manicure. And a pedicure. When did he stop caring about his appearance? He knows he’s still the best looking and carefully groomed man in the village, nay, the surrounding towns, but that’s according to Fillorian standards, not Eliot Waugh standards.  _ And that just won’t do _ . He didn’t fucking escape Indiana to let it come to this, he tells himself, staring firmly at his reflection. 

‘He can see how handsome you are, you know,’ Sylvia says while adjusting the sleeve on Eliot’s shirt. ‘This will have to be shortened,’ she adds in the same tone.

Behind them in the mirror, Quentin is sitting in his  _ other  _ Fillorian outfit (he’ll have five -  _ five  _ \- outfits to take back with him, outfits that can be worn interchangably, together, require the minimal amount of fuss for someone who is obviously both colour blind and a total klutz - Quentin’s words, not Eliot’s - and Eliot wishes he was less gay so he could just propose to Sylvia, but unfortunately that’s not going to happen), happily chatting to Arielle, who’s clearly distracted by her hair, which is using its newfound freedom to mimic the freespirited character of its owner _. _

‘I know. I mean, you’re somewhat right about the shirt, and totally wrong about him,’ Eliot tells her. Sylvia just gives him one of her infuriating smiles. 

‘As you say, my dear,’ she says in the same tone someone would say  _ sure there’s no snow in Antarctica  _ to placate a cranky child.

Eliot is about to tell her how wrong she is - and ask her where exactly her accent is from, he’s heard it before and it’s driving him mad - when the sun is briefly eclipsed. 

‘Well, I see you’ve found a way to make these handsome people even more handsome,’ Lunk says. He’s also wearing the Fillorian equivalent of his Sunday best, but compared to Arie’s daring choice, this is a well-cut traditional Fillorian beige shirt and black trousers, which accidentally happens to accentuates a physique only attained by years of physical labor on the fields on a body that was clearly made for it.

But there’s more than that, Eliot Waugh, former Prince of Brakebills Parties, Connoisseur of Impressive Entrances, suddenly realises. It’s not just Lunk’s obvious physique that pulls the attention of the group to him. There’s also something in his gaze, his demeanour: someone who emanates strength and adventure. From someone who spent years climbing the social ladder, Eliot can clearly recognise someone who has the charm and energy to be a natural-born leader.

(And Eliot can’t deny the total effect this has on certain parts of his body, which are currently sending very inappropriate messages to his brain.)

The effect of such a clear alpha male on the group is immediate. Gone is the easy, goofy atmosphere, replaced by a - not tension nor apprehension, but a certain kind of energy: the promise of adventure, perhaps.

‘Lunk!’ Arie gets up from her seat and throws her arms around her boyfriend. ‘We’ve spent a wonderful afternoon with Sylvia - well, as you can see!’ She seems almost a little flustered, but Lunk smiles easily.

Quentin gives Lunk an easy wave from the steps, which Lunk acknowledges with a smile and a small bow. He then turns around, sees Eliot, looks him up and down in a way Eliot is surprised to see from a heterosexual male, and  _ whistles _ .

‘My, Sylvia, you have outdone yourself. You know, when Arie’s father told me Arie had brought these two gentlemen here I was worried they’d be in dresses.’ 

He laughs as Arie whacks him and rolls her eyes. ‘Funny guy, Lunk. I look amazing, and you know it.’

‘Of course, darling,’ Lunk says, planting an easy kiss on her head. His twinkling eyes meet Eliot’s. 

‘These clothes bring out people’s strength. It’s up to others whether they can deal with that strength or not,’ says Sylvia, quietly folding a red cotehardie and placing it on a bronze table next to the caravan’s steps.

Lunk laughs apologetically. ‘Sorry, Sylvia, I was only messing around. Anyway, I came here to find out where the most beautiful girl in Fillory went to.’ (This earns him another whack from Arie, but a softer one.) ‘I see her hair is acting a little up?’ he says, brushing his large hands over Arie’s red hair. 

‘Oh, uh, yeah, I should probably give this back to you,’ Quentin says, pulling the hair band out of his hair before Eliot can utter a scream against this travesty of nature. (He stops himself when he realises Sylvia is watching him.)

‘No matter, I also sell accessories.’ She reaches around her wrist and pulls one of the many bands off it, handing it to Quentin, who restores his hair to its former glory. ‘There. Catastrophe averted.’ Eliot ignores her pointed smile. 

Lunk has taken Arie’s hand firmly into his own, and she is leaning into him, comfortably. He whispers something in her ear, and she nods. ‘We’d better get back to the stand. Sylvia, am I seeing you next weekend?'

Sylvia picks a small needle sticking out of Eliot’s cotte and sticks it in her headscarf.

‘I’m  _ expecting _ you to be there. There are a few new ladies joining us, I need someone with a little experience to help out.' 

'Oh, is this your unmarried women's needlework club again?' Lunk says. 'They're a very good idea. We should have had those in Loria. Idle hands and all.’

'The unmarried women's domestic skills meet, yes,' Sylvia says. 'Arie did so well last time, I'm hoping she'll join me as a teacher soon.' 

Arie flushes, then says, 'We'd best be getting back to the stand. Did Ranulph survive?'

Lunk looks surprised. ‘What? I mean, he told me where you were-’

Arielle laughs and, waving to the magicians one last time, she and Lunk disappear back towards the field, her clearly relating the story of Ranulph’s  _ incredibly dumb beliefs _ . Quentin is cheerfully waving at their retreating backs, but Eliot is suddenly taken aback by Sylvia, who is watching Arie and Lunk leave with expression on her face that Eliot cannot place. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cudos and thanks go to the amazing Izzy for being an amazing Beta!!


	3. Eliot has a nap, Quentin performs a card trick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! Happy Easter!

Of course it’s shallow to think that clothes fundamentally change a person. Nobody would be that shallow. 

_ Right _ . 

What is clear, however, is that the world has fundamentally changed. It has regained one Eliot Waugh, the same Eliot Waugh who first took Fillory by storm several years ago, being chosen as High King within hours of setting foot in this world and saving the day through his excellent rendition of his speech as the Swayze. 

Granted, not everything had gone smoothly all the time. His Guccis had been unrecognisable by the time they reached Castle Whitespire. It had made his heart ache for a week.

_ But now.  _ There’s a swagger to his step and a feeling of  _ wholeness _ to the world, a sense of being more fully  _ himself _ , that man he had worked so hard at becoming after leaving Indiana, the person he had perfected at Brakebills. He knew he’d made it when he first spotted that nerdy, cute guy who was _ possibly a magician, possibly a flake,  _ stumble across the lawn at Brakebills, look up and stare at him as though Eliot was god’s personal gift to the world. 

That was the evening he’d created his first signature cocktail, a classy mix with sherry and orange bitters. He and Margo had toasted each other in the garden. 

It had been a Moment.

Eliot pulls up his shirt sleeve. Most of the clothes they have acquired need to be adjusted, but Sylvia ( _ has there ever been a more beautiful name for a woman? Except for Margo, obviously)  _ will do so as quickly as possible and will deliver them to the cottage herself. His new clothes - a carefully tailored teal cotte with an elegantly woven belt - are still a bit stiff, but that's a feeling nobody whose clothes have been broken in by three older brothers would  _ ever _ mind. Even his new, dark blue pants aren't feeling hot in the midday sun due to the lightness of the fabric.

_ Quality, bitches.  _

Next to him, Quentin is humming a little tune as he runs his fingers up and down his new suspenders. It’s a tic Eliot vows to cure Quentin of, before the day is over, if only for the sanity of his own mind, which has become… heavily suggestive, watching Quentin’s fingers move deftly up and down his body.  Eliot decides his mind needs a distraction, preferably in the form of fermented fruit drink. 

‘So, Q, I am finding myself in need of quenching certain urges. What say we-’

‘-go back to the mosaic and finish the pattern?’ Quentin says, innocently.

_ Brat.  _ ‘As exciting as that prospect is, my suggestion was more along the lines of finding food and maybe - hey, Q?’

Quentin has stopped dead in his tracks, staring at a multicoloured, cheerful stand full of little flags, copper emblems of Ember and Umber entwined in the womb, and-

‘Oh no,’ Eliot says quietly, but Quentin is already holding up a little box triumphantly, eyes ablaze with the kind of fire Eliot has only ever seen during a less-than-fortunate date night with a young stock trader, who turned out to have a drug problem so substantial that Margo had quietly whistled when Eliot regaled her with the night’s events.

Anyway. The expression on the trader’s face when his drug dealer had taken out a small package of powder? 

That’s what Quentin looks like, brandishing a new pack of cards.

‘I didn’t know they made these in this timeline,’ Quentin gushes, flicking through them. ‘I told Rafe to get me a pack in Castle Whitespire, and he got it totally wrong, they were half a foot each-’

Eliot suppresses an eye roll as Quentin starts palming cards from one hand to the other in obvious delight. ‘We know this timeline takes place a couple of years after the Chatwin’s uncle came through. Maybe he brought a pack with him. Britain didn’t have much to offer back then except prepare to fight the Germans, and, I don’t know, chase up whoever becomes Hitler’s magical equivalent. Grindlewoods.’ 

Quentin raises an eyebrow, eyes not leaving the cards, which are being shuffled from one hand to the other. ‘That’s an incorrect but oddly specific reference to a certain series of books someone said they’d never read, _ when will you leave me alone with that nerdy shit, Quentin. _ ’

‘I said that? Doesn’t sound like me,’ Eliot says innocently. Actually, Margo had threatened to take away his eyeliner until he’d watched the third Harry Potter movie with her. 

The perils of loving a nerd. He sighs. 

The cards are odd things that show Ember and Umber instead of Aces, followed by the current king of Fillory and presumably various noblemen in descending order. But Quentin is so entranced he makes Eliot sit down in the shadow of a man-sized barrel and starts narrating a manipulation called “The Four Burglars”. He’s halfway through this trick when a family with three children stop to watch. The excited “ooos” of the children when Quentin arranges the four centaurs and ends his story with “safety in numbers!” are matched by the parents’ enthusiastic clapping. 

Truthfully, Eliot lost the plot about halfway imagining (or attempting to) the centaurs (who replace the Jacks/burglars) would look entering a house via the front door, the back door, and two windows. Also, Eliot is terribly distracted by Quentin, who, besides being a walking advertisement for Sylvia’s tailoring services, is clearly a man in his element: cards dancing across nimble fingers, the story coming alive in his hands, all shining eyes and adorably flushed cheeks. All of this makes Eliot vow to jump into the cold stream when he gets back to the cottage and soak in the ice cold water for a couple of hours. 

When Quentin finishes the trick, the children yell “more, more!”, including the lisping, impossibly cute four year old who clearly hasn’t followed the story but won’t let herself be out-shouted by her older siblings. More people join, attracted by the noise, and suddenly Quentin is surrounded by a small crowd of appreciative children and parents.

Eliot watches at their entranced faces as Quentin narrates something called the Circus Card Trick, and something quiet and warm starts to spread through his body. His new clothes have settled comfortably on his skin, and there's a feeling of the excitement of the children and the appreciative murmurings of parents and older siblings. There are fragments of laughter and Quentin’s voice that is closing invisible fissures between strangers, mending individuals into one rapt audience. 

The day continues to unwind in an almost dreamlike state. After an hour of narrating card tricks, Quentin’s voice is getting a little hoarse, and Eliot announces that it’s time for the storyteller to have a nap, which earns him chuckles from the audience and an exasperated look from Quentin. 

Somehow, they end up talking to the mother of the impossibly cute four year old and are invited to the family’s caravan. The yellow-painted booth next to the caravan sells honey-cakes that aren’t too sweet, as well as some kind of spiced tea that is, and then the grandfather, who has spotted Quentin’s card deck, brings out his own from a land that apparently predates Fillory and Loria. Supposedly, the deck was acquired by  _ his _ father, who won it from a pirate, a statement that is met with groans from the adults and encouraging calls from the numerous children milling around, and while the story pans out (“It was a wicked year that the Sentient Lightning Folk came to these parts and all young men who were not charcoal and still had both legs made for the borders of the land and the sea…”), the four year old crawls into the first available lap, which happens to be Eliot's, leaning against a tree, and he finds himself holding the warm body of a child who  _ trusts him enough to take a nap on him.  _ Quentin gives him a look that Eliot can’t place, but then Quentin also has a particularly nerdy question about the pirate king’s parrot’s favourite saying, and Eliot, like the child in his lap, feels himself drifting off...

He wakes up with the twilight, for a moment disoriented as the atmosphere around him changes with the lighting of oil lamps, candles and torches across the field. There’s Quentin’s low voice and laughter, and a sudden chill as the four year old is lifted from his lap. Eliot shakes his head to wake himself up properly and declines another honey cake. He’s still feeling sleep-drunk but Quentin seems to have a plan because suddenly they’ve said their goodbyes and are walking back through a field of torches, fragments of conversations drifting around them.

The night air is surprisingly cool, and falling asleep under a tree hasn’t helped matters. Eliot shivers involuntarily. 

‘Here, El.’ Quentin's standing before him, hands unfolding the collar on Eliot’s cotte, attempting to fasten it upright to the ornamental brooch. He’s standing so close that Eliot temporarily forgets to breathe. When he does, he's filled with the deep scent of Quentin; a mixture of lavender soap, old books, coffee in the morning; unmistakably Quentin, Quentin, who is still standing a few inches away under Eliot's chin, frowning at the collar-cotte-pin construction in the flickering half-light of the torches, so close that Eliot could reach out and stick that damn hair behind his ear, the one that keeps on escaping even the impossibly beautiful man bun, oh, he could curse Sylvia...

Quentin’s fingers graze Eliot’s neck. He’s sure Q can hear his heart stutter. 

_ Fuck it, he could reach out. Yank both of those suspenders and- _

‘She made it look so easy,’ Quentin murmurs, and then takes a step back, a small smile on his face. ‘Better?’

Eliot’s body is screaming in protest at the sudden physical distance to Quentin’s body, but he now feels warm around his neck, and slowly, the rest of his body does too. 

‘Better,’ he manages to say. Quentin smiles at him, then scrunches up his face as he’s wont to do when there’s something on his mind.

‘Um, El,-’ he starts.

Out of nowhere, the band starts up. Eliot has had to get used to the fact that Fillorian musical instruments sound like medieval instruments on Earth (that is to say, mostly scratchy), but what is missing in tune is made up for in enthusiasm. 

It's loud. Also, there are now costumed dancers on the makeshift stage, some wearing curved horns, others hooves. They’re clearly meant to show off some kind of artistic interpretation of Ember-and-Umber’s-whatever-separation, which, like any good artistic interpretation, is both emotive and totally confusing to someone who isn’t the director or an art critic. But the horned dancers are weaving elegantly around one another in complex configurations like some dangerous Tetris game, and those wearing hooves sometimes jump synchronously adding a dramatic beat to the beat of the music, so it’s oddly impressive. 

There’s a slight pressure in Eliot’s hand followed by a sudden warmth, and he realises that  _ Quentin is holding it, _ watching the dancers with eyes aglow with appreciation, hand gripping Eliot’s as though it was the most normal thing in the world, fingers and thumb putting pressure on Eliot’s in tune to the dancer's crescendos. 

This should be no different than any of the casual touches between them at the mosaic, but Eliot is aware of the difference between _hand-holding_ and _hand-touching_ , thank you, and this is very much the former. It feels as though there’s an electrical current moving from Quentin’s hand to his, all the way up his arm, his shoulders, his heart... 

Eliot moves his finger a little and is immediately rewarded with a stronger grip. 

_ Okay. Okay. Just don’t read anything into it _ .  _ This is us adapting to the Fillorian habit of hand-holding. Totally normal. Heterosexual men do it all the time. _

He’s sure he saw one of Arie’s cousins clap the shoulder of another male cousin. That’s the same, right? Right? 

His brain is having trouble forming a coherent thought.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Quentin breathes, because he’s exactly the kind of person who says things like that and probably means it. 

_ Nerd. _ ‘It’s not unimpressive,’ Eliot concedes, and then, because he’s Eliot Waugh, ‘Still, Arche’s Firefly Spell would have been more impressive. Especially if it burned down someone’s house.’ 

Quentin snorts. ‘You’re terrible.’ He turns, and suddenly Eliot is staring into two very deep, brown eyes. 

‘El,’ Quentin says, ‘about the other day. You need to know something.’ His fingers are lightly playing with Eliot’s, each movement short-circuiting another part of Eliot's brain. 

_ Get a grip, Waugh. _

‘Don’t look so serious, Q. It’s almost as if you have something important to say-’

‘Shut up,’ says Quentin. Eliot opens his mouth and then shuts it again. ‘Look,’ Quentin says, ‘the other day with Arie and Lunk - you called me a heterosexual man. I need you to know I’m not.’

‘That’s ridiculous, you dated Alice,’ Eliot says before he can stop himself. 

The Look Quentin gives him is withering. 

‘Wouldn’t have taken you for someone to indulge in bi-erasure,’ he says softly. ‘I… sort of fall in love with… people. My first crush was our Home Ed teacher. He used to bring his retriever to school before that was a thing. Ask Julia. Well. Whenever we… get back’ 

Eliot closes his eyes. Okay, fine, so Quentin is… bi or pansexual, whatever the kids are calling it these days. It doesn’t change…

_ Quentin is still holding Eliot’s hand. _

‘I need you to know this,’ Quentin says softly, ‘because. Well. I-’

And Eliot opens his eyes. Quentin’s taking a step towards him. 

And then.

And then -  _ because clearly Ember and Umber fucking hate Eliot  _ \- there’s a shriek behind them.

‘Quentin! Eliot!’

It’s Arielle striding towards them, slightly unsteadily as though inebriated. She’s laughing, pulling along Lunk, who does not seem as delighted at seeing Q and Eliot as Arie is. 

‘Tell me one of you’s a dancer!’ Arielle demands. She sways a little unsteadily on her feet, and Quentin grabs her arm, letting go of Eliot’s in the process.

_ Something inside Eliot goes cold. _

‘Pardon my lovely lady, she’s been going strong on the Elderberry wine,’ Lunk says, raising an eyebrow. 

Arie raises a finger. ‘That’s not true, you kept refilling my glass and telling me to drink up, even though I said I had enough-

Lunk laughs and pulls her towards him into an affectionate hug. To the magicians, he says, ‘You both made quite an impression on my lady. We were going to see the fireflies-’

‘-there are no fireflies in that field, Lunk, you should listen to me!’ 

‘But then she saw you and realised that neither of you knows Fillorian dances, and apparently that’s a crime!’

There’s a pause. Eliot does not feel inclined to break it. He’d liked Arie, but she’s currently a giggling mess, clearly not in charge of herself, and as much as Eliot likes being drunk, he doesn’t like drunks who rely on other people to look after them. 

(He ignores the fact that this is basically how he and Margo functioned at virtually every party; taking turns looking after the other one or at least stopping them from doing something they would regret in the morning.)

‘Er,’ Quentin says, ‘you should dance with El, I’m not really much good at it. Two left feet and all...’ He gives Eliot a warm smile. 

_ Right. _

‘Actually, Quentin was just telling me how interested he was in learning Fillorian dances,’ Eliot says. Quentin shoots him a look that’s both puzzled and, Eliot is satisfied to see, a tiny bit alarmed. 

‘No, I-’

‘Of course you should dance with Quentin. Arielle’s a wonderful teacher,’ Lunk says, letting go of Arie and taking a step back. Since he’s been effectively supporting her she teeters dangerously on the spot and Quentin jumps forward in alarm, steadying her. She seems to take this as a sign of encouragement, and suddenly the two of them are disappearing towards the stage. Quentin shoots one last look of confusion at Eliot before he dissolves into the half-darkness.

And Eliot is left alone, a familiar coldness spreading through his body.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cudos as always go to amazing Izzy for Beta-ing this chapter and putting up with my weird UK/US spelling issues.


	4. Eliot searches for fireflies, Quentin goes dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic language and sex with some questionable consent issues.

Okay, so the events of the past few minutes have been confusing. But Eliot recognises a clear sign when someone paints it red and throws it at his face. He can feel something in his heart withdrawing, crawling back into a closet, hiding. 

Eliot slams the door shut behind it. 

His thoughts are currently yelling obscenities at him. Luckily, there is a tried and proven way to silence them. He pats down his belted cotte and pants, noticing as he does that his right hand feels a little warmer than his left; remnants of Quentin’s warm touch. 

His patting becomes more frantic. _Fuck, where is the flask?_

_Breathe, baby._ Somewhere in the darkness, Margo’s voice. Hearing it makes things worse. _Don't remind me of what I don't have_ , he wants to yell at the universe. _If she were here this might actually be bearable..._

If he could only find his fucking flask...

_Fillorian clothes don’t have inside pockets._

The thought hits him like a tsunami and almost brings him to his knees. 

He remembers Sylvia’s noncommittal shrug just a few hours ago. _‘Inside pockets are a Floater thing; highly unfashionable for Fillorian standards. I’ll sew them on if you really want to, but it might alter the folds of some of the garments. Which I would counsel against - oh, wonderful, see how nicely that cotte and belt combination hugs your hips?’_ Clearly, Eliot had been too twitterpated with his own reflection to fully understand the consequences of Sylvia's words. A lack of inside pockets means a lack of places to put his flask. The damn thing is probably still in Sylvia’s caravan. Would she still be awake? Perhaps he could break in if she wasn't....

_Stop._ He takes a deep breath. Flexes his toes, focuses on the feeling of the ground under his feet. Tries to think this one through.

Look, they’re at a party. And what do parties _always_ have besides people making fools of themselves dancing? 

What are all folk-fests an excuse for anyway?

Exactly. 

Remembering this, his breathing slows and he suddenly remembers he’s not alone. Luckily, Lunk’s ridiculously chiseled features are still staring at the darkness into which Arie and Quentin disappeared, so he hasn't noticed Eliot's distress. 

Good. Looks as though Eliot won’t be drinking alone.

_Time to get this party started_. 

‘Say,’ Eliot says, ‘is there a place where a man might be able indulge in some alcoholic fruit beverages?’

Lunk gives him a long, inscrutable look. ‘Many,' he says. ‘Arie’s family is known for the best plum liquor around, and there’s a good stand with Lorian ales. Not for lightweights though.' 

'That,' Elliot assures him, 'will not be a problem. Lead the way.'

Before long they’re standing next to a tent decorated with flags of Ember and Umber, and ones depicting either a crudely drawn snake or (Eliot shudders) an umbilical cord, as well as an assortment of revelers at various stages of inebriation. There are several mugs resting on upturned barrels. Lunk maneuvers himself around one and returns with two very large mugs with clouded ale, as well as two small glasses filled with red liquid. 

Eliot eyes them cautiously. ‘Ah, I see it's buy-one-ale, get-a-vial-of-complementary-blood-free day.’ 

Lunk grins and picks up the small glass which almost disappears in his large hands. 'This is red berry liquor. It's traditional to toast to Ember and Umber's magical fruit before you start drinking.'

Eliot suppresses an internal eye-roll and picks up the other glass with red liquid. 'Well, then, who are we to flout tradition. To Ember and Umber’s… whatever.' 

They down the booze. It’s too sweet for Eliot’s taste but burns his throat and stomach in a welcome way. Lunk’s eyeing him with some amusement and lifts up his ale in a toast. Eliot raises his own glass, and both men drink deeply. The mugs are set down on the wooden table with a _thunk_ , and Eliot notices with some satisfaction that his glass is half-empty, just like Lunk’s.

Or half-full. Whatever. Warmth is spreading through Eliot’s body, wrapping his thoughts in a hazy fog of intoxication. He has a sudden vision of Quentin’s retreating back, but the thought is faint, and hardly leaves a mark. He takes another deep drink from his glass. This is a pleasing development. 

The other pleasing development is standing on the other side of the barrel, muscled arms resting nonchalantly on the wood. The thought comes unbidden that not only is Eliot not drinking alone, he's also drinking with someone whose features scream _ripped!_ On his way here, Eliot had formed a hazy plan to have a few drinks, find Silas, and see where the evening went. But spending some time with _this_ drinking partner would not be much of a punishment either. For one, Lunk seems to know his way around alcohol and two, Eliot is not the only one to see that this is a very good looking man; some drinkers around them are casting Lunk admiring or jealous glances. Even in a crowd, Lunk isn’t someone who is easily ignored. 

_We would look good together._ The thought arises unbidden. Eliot takes another big gulp, but the thought won't let itself be pushed away.

They’re the same height and both very attractive in different ways, Lunk’s ruggedness contrasting pleasingly with Eliot’s elegance and poise. 

_They would have turned heads at Brakebills._ Here, though, that’s clearly out of the question, Eliot reminds himself. _One, Arie’s boyfriend. Two, very straight._

_Why did Quentin tell him he wasn't?_ Eliot quickly downs the rest of the mug of ale. Lunk gives him an approving look.

It's probably polite to make an attempt at small talk. What is it that straight men talk about? As the former uncontested Prince of Brakebills parties Eliot feels like he used to know, but it’s been a year either talking to Q, the odd trader, or no-one at all, and it’s as though the social script, which he could declare in his sleep, is currently eluding him. He racks his brain for something people say at parties. What would Margo say?

‘So,’ he hears himself say, ‘what’s Loria like at this time of the year?' In his mind, Margo rolls his eyes at him. _Really, El?_

‘Loria,’ Lunk says, his expression briefly clouding. He catches the bartender’s eye, holding up two fingers. ‘Last I was there it was plagued by hordes of locusts and snowstorms.’ 

‘Oh, huh,’ Eliot says. He thinks. ‘So you wouldn’t recommend it for a quick spring getaway, then.’

There’s a pause and Lunk laughs, a charming, full-bellied laugh, loud enough that at least three tables turn their way.

‘You’re a funny man, Eliot,’ he says. ‘I knew that the first time I saw you.’

‘Many people have remarked just so.’ Eliot lies, returning the toast and mirroring the big swig Lunk takes. It’s good ale, and he’s beginning to feel very light-headed. ‘Also, far be it from me to be pedantic, but don’t you mean _swarms_ of locusts?

‘Not if they're sentient and armed.’

‘That must really add to Loria’s charm.’

‘You have no idea.’

There’s a shriek from the dance floor; someone has either been stabbed or has stepped on someone else’s foot. Eliot’s heart calms right down when he realises it doesn't sound like Quentin (Quentin’s fallen in the stream often enough for Eliot to know his shriek). Lunk briefly cranes his neck and then claps his hands in approval. 'Alright! First horn casualty is a fact.’ 

Eliot frowns. ‘Sounds painful.’ 

‘Judging by the scream, it was,’ Lunk says, grinning. Eliot raises an eyebrow. Lunk gives him a _what? look._ 'I’m not a fan of dancing,’ he says.

_Okay, that tracks._ 'The costumes are a little whimsical,’ Eliot concedes. ‘I’ve never really understood how people can dance on those fake hooves-’

Again the air fills with Lunk’s laughter. ‘The hooves are terrible,’ he says. ‘I always hope one of the dancers falls over and breaks their ankle.’

Eliot laughs. He is in exactly the kind of mood for jokes like that. ‘Cheers,’ he says, toasting Lunk and beckoning the barman over again. The night air presses cool against his body, and the alcohol is setting his mind adrift. He’s quite used to his booze, but he hasn’t eaten much today and he’s just gone through a very large mug of ale and a shot in a very short period of time.

He wants to keep going.

‘And then there’s the stupid traditional bit,’ Lunk is saying.

‘Yeah, traditions pretty much suck. Fucking goat urine.’ 

Lunk smiles, and then says, ‘All dances in Fillory are strictly man-woman. I hate that.’

Eliot is about to reply with something snarky. Instead, he catches Lunk’s expression, which has become watchful. 

_Watching how Eliot responds to this._

‘I guess that must annoy the centaurs,’ Eliot says, carefully noncommittal.

Lunk laughs. ‘It does.' A pause. 'As much as it annoys a man who wants to dance with another good looking man.’ Full mugs are placed in front of them, and Eliot mimics Lunk’s silent toast and follows him in pretty much downing all the ale at once. His thoughts are yelling at him again, slurry words that Eliot has trouble following. 

When he puts the mug down, Lunk is standing next to him. 

There’s a small part of Eliot that registers the irony of the fact that after months of, well, _almost fucking nothing_ , a man’s physical presence is threatening to take hostage of Eliot’s senses for the second time today. Lunk’s physique is really something to behold, exuding the kind of wholesome strength and energy one presumably gets from a lifetime of farm work and regular meals. His strong eyebrows frame green eyes which are currently locking Eliot into a mesmerising gaze. 

There’s a familiar feeling building in Eliot’s stomach; the feeling he gets when someone wants him, _wants_ Eliot Waugh, and is going to make it a night pursuing him if necessary. In a good way.

_Okay. So Eliot did not see that one coming._

‘Fillorian dances are only between men and women,’ Lunk says softly. ‘It is something that has always felt… limited to me.’ Eliot is aware of a sudden surge of charge as Lunk’s finger connects with his hand, gently stroking it, idly and nonchalant. 

_The things one could do with a hand like that._

_Wait. Still Arie’s boyfriend._

‘I was under the impression that you and Arielle were, well, an item.’ Eliot says, neutrally. He doesn’t withdraw his hand. 

A smile spreads across Lunk’s face. ‘Arielle is wonderful,’ he says. ‘But some things are done better with someone with… different equipment.’ His eyes gaze appraisingly at Eliot, his gaze momentarily lingering on Eliot’s mouth, and then wandering south.

It’s been a while since someone has looked at Eliot with that kind of naked _wanting._ It makes Eliot’s mouth go dry with longing. 

Ugh, but now he’s thought about the elephant in the room he can’t unthink it. 

‘And does Arielle know that you sometimes like to do things with people who have different equipment?’ he says. 

For the first time, Lunk hesitates. His gaze breaks away, looking into the distance. ‘I would never do anything to hurt Arie. But… it's just so hard,’ he says quietly. ‘Arie’s a Fillorian at heart. She says men who like other men are not real... men. She says we can work on this together. I want to believe her.’ His gaze drops to the floor. ‘It’s just hard,’ he repeats. 

Eliot closes his eyes. There’s an odd taste in his mouth that has replaced the sweet taste of honey cake he woke up with earlier. For all his dislike of this whimsical world, he has never encountered homophobia as directly as… this.

_Then again, how would you know? You were High King and married to a woman, and now you’re just a Nobody trying to solve an impossible quest. How many damn Pride marches have you been on since coming here?_

Good grief. If Arielle has been telling Lunk they can “work through it”, that’s some grade A re-education bullshit. He remembers her standing in the caravan, hands playing nervously with the hat. Her story. 

He took her to be open-minded. Different. 

_People can be two things at the same time._ He remembers his history teacher telling them about the racist undercurrent in the women’s suffrage movement. _They were fighting for women’s rights to vote,_ she’d said. _Just not every woman’s rights, because some women weren’t human enough to be real women._

(Not the kind of lessons to teach kids in rural Indiana, incidentally. Eliot had been sad when she’d been let go.)

Anyway. In other words, just because Arie is fighting against _one_ kind of repressive societal bullshit doesn’t mean she hasn’t bought into another. 

And Eliot is so tired of that.

He’d left Indiana to get away from this kind of bullshit, for chrissake. Of course New York had its pockets of homophobia, but the great thing about New York was that you could spend all day around people who were like you, or at least fucking accepting of who you were.

_Fuck. What have people been saying about him and Quentin? How backwards is Fillory exactly? Is it dangerous to be gay in Fillory?_

How has Eliot never asked himself these questions? Surely five years living in New York/Brakebills haven't robbed him of _every_ carefully cultivated survival instinct?

He’s dreamt about blowing up the mosaic every day since arriving in Fillory. 

He has never, ever, felt as close to quitting as he is now.

‘Eliot,’ Lunk says, still watching Eliot closely. ‘Are you alright? I did not want to burden - we don’t have to -’

_Fuck this._

‘No. We absolutely do,’ Eliot says firmly. He wraps his hand around Lunk’s neck, steps forward and plants his lips on Lunk’s mouth. He feels Lunk freeze for a moment and a familiar doubt sets in - _what if he totally misread the situation_ \- but then Lunk relaxes and opens his mouth to Eliot, taking him in. 

In any other pursuit, Eliot would take his time, allow their lips to linger, let the other person adjust while at the same time working them up slowly with kisses and touches and murmured whispers until the other person’s breathing came harder and faster. But there’s a strange urgency to the world now, fuelled by this homophobic world, by the image of Quentin walking away with Arielle, fuelled by alcohol and the immediacy of this beefcake of a man in front of Eliot, willing and ready to have him. He sucks Lunk’s lip and nips at it gently, and is rewarded by a soft growl. He’s close enough to Lunk that he can feel other parts of Lunk’s body beginning to react, making Eliot’s cock twitch in anticipation in turn. 

He breaks away suddenly, coming to his senses; somehow he hasn’t adjusted to the fact that they’re in a crowded place surrounded by homophobic Fillorians who have been drinking, which is _not a fucking great combination_ to say the least. He looks around quickly, but strangely enough nobody seems to be giving two shits about two men kissing in their midst. This is crazy; making out in the middle of a bar would be a suicidal move in certain parts of Indiana. But people were already pretty sloshed when Eliot and Lunk arrived, it’s very possible they’re just too drunk to tell.

Lunk’s face is a little flushed and his lip is a delightful colour of red. ‘There’s a field full of fireflies just up yonder,’ he says, grinning. ‘If you’re not from around here it’s a sight to see.’

‘Intriguing,’ Eliot says, smiling in turn. ‘Well, in the spirit of getting to know one’s home… lead the way, sir.’ 

Lunk turns without another glance - completely sure Eliot will follow - and Eliot does just that. As soon as they step behind the bar tent it’s like stepping into another world; the darkness and coolness of the grass swallows the light of the flickering torches and mutes the sounds of people beginning to reach the zenith of drunkenness. Lunk strides purposefully across the field until he reaches the roots of a large tree, leaves rustling slightly in the wind, and-

Eliot is briefly taken aback at the urgency with which he is pushed against the trunk, and then again at the urgency of Lunk kissing him, all raw hunger, hands roaming over Eliot's body, taking in every inch of his clothing and flesh. At Brakebills, Eliot has always been the one in charge, the one to initiate, the one to top. It’s clear that things are different here. And why not? Eliot has been feeling oddly unmoored, but there’s a good looking man Eliot can’t wait to get his hands on about to have his way with him, and while Eliot’s not sure if he wants this, his body is yelling _yes, yes, it's been so long,_ so Eliot goes with it, shutting down his thoughts (because he’s a fucking champion at that) and letting himself fall.

He grabs on to the nape of his neck and Lunk growls into his mouth, again pushing Eliot into the uneven trunk of the tree with a move that briefly takes away Eliot's breath (but seriously, who cares about oxygen ). Lunk takes Eliot's arms and pins them over his head, kissing him deeply, tongue exploring, conquering every inch of Eliot’s mouth. Eliot moans again, wants to move his hand so he can touch Lunk and - finds that he can't. His hands are firmly pinned above his head. 

There's a chuckle. 'Relax, I know what I'm doing. You'll like it.' 

There’s a part of Eliot that’s not sure how he feels about not being able to move his hands, but there’s no time to think as Lunk’s tongue resumes exploration, and Eliot tells his uncertainty to _shove it_ , he’s not going to do anything that jeopardises this moment. Lunk's moving down the side of his mouth now, teeth grazing Eliot's skin, sucking, biting Eliot’s neck and again, Eliot can’t help but moan. He feels overtaken by events, he feels not like himself, but he loves the feeling of skin and his body and Lunk’s body. The pressure on his hands is released, replaced by a pressure on Eliot’s head, which is pushing Eliot downwards in a very definite direction, followed by the sound of a belt unbuckling. 

‘You’re a good boy,’ Lunk says approvingly, and Eliot thinks _yes, yes, I am_ , and, _I want_.

There's only one problem, he realises as he sinks to his knees. He's just a bit too drunk. The downward movement has already made his stomach turn in a very non-sexy way, and he suddenly knows that if he doesn't sober up quickly _he will throw up._

Fortunately, two years of hard partying at Brakebills means he can complete a sobering spell in his sleep. He's just completed the sequence of familiar tuts before he remembers that sobering up spells are also proximity detector spells, which means they're likely to affect both the caster and anyone in a five foot radius. _Crap._ The hand that's been exerting pressure on Eliot's head pauses, and the two legs take a step back. 

'What did you just do?' Lunk's voice sounds confused and a little annoyed.

Eliot sighs. This is clearly a set-back. 'Slight miscalculation,' he says, pushing himself into a standing position, noting happily that the ground is no longer trying to trip him up. 'The last of the evening,' he says firmly, reaching for Lunk, who, after a moment's hesitation, moves towards him.

_And that's how Eliot ends up having amazing sex all night._

Okay, so it's not.

Even as Lunk reaches for him, Eliot realises he can no longer drown out the sound of his thoughts.

One voice in particular. 

Margo's.

_'El, what did we say about messiness?'_

Fuck. 

Eliot knows that his experience of a good time is what other people might call an _absolutely insane time of random debauchery._

But. There are some lines that are too messy to cross. 

This was after the Mike, aka he-who-was-faithful-in-words-but-not-in-deeds fiasco. 

It had been a lesson. He’d decided then: some actions were beneath Eliot Waugh. 

_He’d told Mike about Indiana, for chrissake._

_Margo had agreed. ‘If we’re going to be the Slutty-Queen-Bees on this campus it needs to not be messy.’ To Eliot’s raised eyebrow, ‘Well, not messier than something a spell can clean up. And memory-wiping spells are messy, El.’_

_They’d both turned to look at Todd who had just walked into the cottage door for the umpteenth time._

_‘Maybe you shouldn’t use them then,’ Eliot had suggested._

_‘Maybe that bitch needs to learn to stay off my Chianti,’ Margo had said._

Back in the present, Eliot groans. 'Lunk… wait,' he says. Lunk’s lips are on Eliot’s neck, working his way to his collarbone in a rough, demanding fashion. His hand has grabbed Eliot's arm again and is holding it above Eliot's head against the trunk. He doesn't appear to have heard Eliot.

'Enough already,' Eliot laughs, but there's a funny feeling in his stomach, and his body is beginning to respond again…

And then Eliot is momentarily blinded as his hand starts glowing like a beacon with bright, white light. Both men freeze and break apart, sheltering their eyes against the glare.

‘What. The. Fuck.’ says Lunk, and now he really sounds annoyed. 'Did you do this?'

For a moment, Eliot wonders if he did, if this is a side-effect of the sobering-up spell. And then the truth hits him all at once.

‘Oh gods…’ he groans, covering his face with his non-glowing hand. And starts laughing. 'Shit. Lunk, I'm sorry… It’s a locator spell. Quentin must have cast it… he must be looking for me…'

‘Turn it off,’ Lunk growls.

'I can't.’ Eliot is gasping for air now, wheezing with laughter. This situation is just too ridiculous. He’s too far gone to explain that Quentin has cast an excellent locator spell, the kind one uses for large objects, such as when lost sailors happen to misplace the shoreline. It's overkill by approximately 10,000. It's exactly the kind of thing that Quentin, who messes up a simple fire-lighter spell at least once a day, would do, cock-blocking Eliot in the process of course.

As though on cue, a voice calls ‘Eliot!’. There’s the sound of approaching footsteps and Quentin appears in the circle of light. 

‘Is everything okay?’ Quentin says. His face is still slightly flushed from dancing or possibly from keeping his dance partner upright, and there’s enjoyment and open curiosity written all over his face. ‘Lunk! Great to see you! Eliot, why is your hand glowing like that?’

And Eliot can’t help himself. He’s laughing uncontrollably, trying very hard to swallow down those little pockets of hysteria that threaten to overtake him. Lunk looks at him with obvious distaste. ‘I should go,’ he says, striding off without another glance. In any other circumstances Eliot would at least call after him, but he’s having enough trouble regulating his breathing between bouts of laughter.

Quentin watches Lunk leave with a look of confusion. ‘Um, is everything okay? Seriously, should your hand be glowing like that? All I wanted was a spell to find you, so I'd say mission accomplished….'

On cue, the hand stops glowing, plunging the magicians into darkness. The sudden darkness has a sobering effect on Eliot. He lets out the last bouts of laughter, blinking away the lingering image of his hand on his retina as he does so. Slowly, Quentin's features come into focus instead. He still looks like someone who overall has had a good time, but also doesn’t know what to make of the events of the last two minutes.

‘So. Um,’ Quentin says carefully. He seems a little unmoored at Eliot’s hysterical laughter, and possibly Lunk’s quick departure. ‘Dancing was a lot of fun, and it turns out Fillorian traditional dances are basically like square dancing- So, you know. Cowboy camp.'

'Good,' Eliot says. He takes a couple of gulps of cold night air, suddenly aware of his half-erection, which, he’s completely sure, he doesn’t want Quentin to see. Does he look like someone who’s just had a heavy make-out session? He runs his hands through his hair, distracted, and pats down his shirt before remembering the absent flask again. 

‘Did your dance partner enjoy herself?’ he says, more as a way to distract Quentin than to get an answer. He doesn’t want to think about Arie for many reasons. 

'Well, it was odd,' Quentin says, frowning. ‘Her sisters came and took her back to the caravan - carried her, more like. It’s pretty weird, you’d think moving would sober people up but she was getting more out of it as we danced-’

‘Yeah, that’s pretty weird,’ Eliot says, absentmindedly. He wonders where Lunk ran off to, then he realises he doesn’t want to think about Lunk while standing next to Quentin, and it’s all a bit confusing and strange. 

Quentin gives him a look and plows on. ‘Yeah. She was really, really drunk. Anyway, it turns out Fillorian dances are pretty easy to learn once you’ve been to Cowboy camp. Square dancing all over again, with the additional skip.’ 

‘Uh huh.’

‘And then there’s the part where everyone gets naked and starts doing these ballet-cum-breakdancing moves. It’s pretty wild.’

‘Totally,’ says Eliot. ‘Wait, what?’

Quentin grins, and Eliot suddenly realises that he’s seeing this _new_ Quentin, properly attired and a little bit more confident, which is… weird, and kind of hot.

_Ugh. His mind needs to start playing a new record._

‘Just checking,’ Quentin says. ‘The party’s winding down, and Arie’s cousin offered us a ride back on his cart. I said I’d check in case you felt like sleeping on the grass. It could be like boy scout camp.’

_Fuck boy scout camp._ Eliot hated every moment of being far away in nature with a bunch of troglodytes, separated from his beloved sewing machine. At least girl scouts got to make cookies. 

Besides, he knows he still looks too amazing to sleep in the dirt. He says, ‘And get grass-stains on _this_? Speak no more about your crimes against humanity.’ 

He’s also feeling oddly tired all of a sudden. Today has been too weird. 

Quentin grins. ‘I mean, I could lend you my old hoodie-’ He’s silenced by a look from Eliot. 

‘Enough blasphemy, this is a religious fest,’ Eliot says firmly. ‘Lead the way.’

They start heading back towards the field lit up by the fire of smouldering touches.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Eliot visits the outhouse, Quentin fixes a chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so things get a little bit steamy in this chapter, so if you're here for is Queliot smut and only Queliot smut, here be the scene. :)

The problem with sobering charms is that they’re temporally bound and therefore terribly deceiving. A sobering charm will help you drive back home safely after a night of excessive drinking, but it won’t allow you to skip the hangover the next day. 

Magic comes from pain and sometimes pain comes from magic.

This deep, philosophical insight brings no relief to Eliot, who feels as though a small furry animal has thrown a party in his brain before crawling into his mouth and dying.

Gods, what do they _put_ in Fillorian ale? He feels like he did when he got nervous during that school party and had too many glasses of punch. He’d even watched the football team spike it, for chrissake, but somehow that had been secondary to the knowledge that he was going to catch a ride with Baylor, the pastor’s son, who was wearing that incredibly hot suit (or whatever classified as _hot_ in Eliot’s 17 year old mind).

Anyway, the point is that ever since that terrible night, Eliot has been careful about alcohol. He’s not a drunk, he’s a classy, functional alcoholic who knows the difference between an enjoyable buzz and the onset of something that will cause more than a light headache. Fine, so last night he set out to drink slightly more, but… this? 

_This_ feels very juvenile. 

Eliot groans into his pillow and opens one bleary eye.

Judging by the dusty light shining through the cottage window, it’s past noon already. There’s no sign of Quentin, whose side of the bed has a sloppy _let me just get this thing done and leave_ look. Any other day, Eliot would be disappointed about missing out on breakfast with Quentin; the way he’s feeling right now he doesn’t think he’ll want breakfast or anything to eat ever again. 

He pulls the blanket over his head. Perhaps if he closes his eyes and cancels today, tomorrow will be better.

Except, now he can’t. Someone perfectly hateful has started hammering just outside of the cottage. Unbelievable. Now he will have go all avada kedavra on them while nursing a hangover. How does the world contain so much inconvenient evil?

Quentin almost drops his hammer in surprise when Eliot emerges from the cottage, leans on the whitewashed wall and holds up one finger demonstrably, before dry-heaving. 

‘Not over the rosemary bush!’ Quentin looks alarmed. Eliot spares some energy to glare at him, then squats, fighting the nausea. 

Whose idea was the sun anyway? Everything is so bright and uncomfortably warm and, ugh. He needs to go back to bed. Perhaps if he just stares quietly at that weed growing next to the rosemary bush for the rest of his life, everything will be okay.

He feels something cool touch his hand. Quentin is holding a glass of water. Shakily, he takes it and drinks. Water pours down his throat, soothing and cooling. Almost immediately, the light is a little more tolerable and his stomach feels less like it’s going to make a backflip or a hasty exit. 

Quentin’s concerned face slides into view. It’s a testament to how Eliot is feeling that he can’t muster the strength to feel disappointed over the lack of man bun. 

‘Sorry, El, did I wake you? That seat is too heavy to drag and I was trying to hammer with my back to the cottage.’

Eliot groans. ‘Brakebills really needs to start teaching physics 101. Q, listen closely: light can be broken by objects and cause a shadow. Sound, on the other hand-’

‘Oh, right, funny guy. And here’s me thinking you might actually feel bad.’ Quentin sits back on his haunches, grinning. There’s a small smudge of dirt on his cheek, and even in his current state Eliot has to fight off the impulse to wipe it off. Even though he feels terrible it’s hard to miss how good Quentin’s still looking in his new outfit. Although -

‘Is that oil? Did you get oil on your new shirt?’ 

Quentin glances at his sleeve and has the grace to look embarrassed. 

‘You know, I actually took this shirt off before oiling the hinges but then I tripped, and the bottle must have still been open and -’

Eliot covers his eyes with his hand. ‘Oh gods, forget I asked,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a spell for that. I’ll do it when the world stops spinning.’ His mind circles back to something else Quentin said. ‘Getting back to those hinges.’

‘They got oiled, yes,’ Quentin says patiently. ‘Because they were squeaky and you’ve been complaining about them since Day One.’

‘Actually, I think I was complaining about your weak bladder-’

‘- waking you up when nature calls at night, exactly. Now you won’t hear me. Problem solved. Just like the other things I took care of.’ 

‘Other things...?’

Eliot follows Quentin’s gaze towards an assortment of objects piled onto the mosaic; or rather, the pile of objects littering the space where the mosaic is usually assembled. Lying there is such an assortment of _stuff_ that Eliot first isn’t sure what he’s looking at. 

Then he gets it: these are all objects that have annoyed him in one way or another in the past. 

There’s the chair with the wobbly leg; the fork with the curved tine that points away from the rest so you can only eat at an awkward angle; the shutter with the two broken slats and the third one that threatens to fall off every time Eliot opens the window; the little metal parts that line the hearth whose names Eliot doesn’t know but uses to hang the pots on and which have a horribly _blackened-from-smoke_ look...

Except: now they’re gleaming. 

‘I haven’t finished everything,’ Quentin says apologetically, misreading Eliot’s expression. ‘I didn’t want to do any of the hammering, but then you still weren’t awake and I thought-’

‘-who cares about Eliot anyway, he’s just another drunk.’

‘You know I don’t feel that way about you.

The silence is full of last night’s conversation; the one that wasn’t finished. _You know, the one you had before you kissed Lunk._ That thought looms big at the back of Eliot’s mind, threatening to push his already perilously spinning world off its axis.

He’s hungover. This is clearly not the time to sort out last night’s events, he tells his thoughts, which is a politer way of telling them to fuck off. 

Strangely enough, his head is beginning to feel better. So much so, in fact, that colours have come into focus and the ground has stopped trying to trip him up. 

_Huh._

‘Fillorian water is really something,’ Eliot says, emptying the glass of the last remaining droplets.

‘Actually, I added a small healing charm to the water while you were sleeping,’ Quentin says. He holds up his hands. ‘Um, it’s nothing special. Just your standard cell regeneration charm, and a minor detoxifying ward to go with it. You know, the 101 hangover cure you taught me after that party where I got so drunk-’

‘-all your wards went down and Penny started to get drunk as well. Yeah, that was classic,’ Eliot says. ‘I didn’t know you’d mastered it. That’s advanced spellwork, Q.’

‘Well, second year spellwork, at least.’ Quentin says modestly. ‘I just thought… well, mending things had gone so well, and I thought, what is a hangover but lots of little breakages in your body-’

Eliot grins. ‘It really isn’t, but go on.’ 

Quentin rolls his eyes. ‘Anyway, so I thought I’d give it a try because there aren’t any side effects.’

There’s a pause as they contemplate the truth of Quentin’s words.

‘Unless the spell is spoken, you know, a bit too fast,’ Quentin adds, thoughtfully. There’s another pause. ‘Um, El...’

‘Yeah. I imagine that the effect would be a bit like One Direction meets The Purge,’ Eliot says. He’s already walking toward the outhouse.

‘Yeah, um,’ Quentin says. Eliot puts one hand on his stomach, and increases his speed. ‘I’ll just… not hammer while you’re in there!’ Eliot hears behind him as he dashes the last few feet and slams the outhouse door. 

***

So this is how the rest of the day goes:

It takes Eliot an hour or so to recover from his body fast-forwarding the cleansing process, which was not enjoyable, but does get the job done in a, yes, one directional manner. Eliot can remain hunched over the outhouse hole without having to change his position. Honestly, he’ll take all the advantages he can get at this point.

And then it’s over, and Eliot emerges back into the sun-filled world and stumbles into the stream where he lets his body wash away the indignancies of the last hour and rehydrate itself. 

Okay, so that wasn’t fun. But Eliot really does feel much better when he comes out of the stream.

So much so that he can appreciate the Apology Coffee Quentin hands him over their breakfast blanket, which Quentin has laid out even though it’s clearly gone past lunch

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for it,’ Quentin says apologetically. ‘But it’s a nice way to start the day, and since your day is technically starting right now…’

‘Yeah, yeah, pile it on,’ Eliot says, but he’s admiring the scene before him too much to feel annoyed. Quentin isn’t a masterchef and thinks of food as something one _puts together_ rather than something one takes the time to cook or, gods forbid, _create_. But the blanket is filled with _a lot_ of delicious bits and pieces from yesterday’s festival, along with a small sprig of wild flowers in the middle, which is a weirdly nice addition Eliot can appreciate right now. Anyway, everything looks excellent. Quentin is clearly hungry from his mending adventures and Eliot’s body is ready to replenish itself, so the first few minutes are spent in quiet companionship and happy munching sounds. 

At some point between putting a small, careful slice of jellied quince on some kind of Fillorian cheese ( _not_ made from centaur’s breast milk, although Quentin believed _that one_ for a very pleasing amount of time), Eliot gets that feeling someone’s watching him, and he looks up just in time to catch Quentin blush and look away. 

_Oh, yeah. There’s that._

His body’s urges have taken centre stage for most of the day, but now that the immediate urgency of survival has gone, last night’s memories are flooding in. 

There’s the softness of Quentin’s warm hand, Quentin’s deep, dark eyes fixing him with an inscrutable expression, telling Eliot that he’s not straight, opening his mouth to say something else...

Eliot shakes his head. No, he refuses to read any more into that. Refuses to think what this could mean. _Refuses to_ _hope._

He reminds himself of what happened when Arie showed up, how willingly Quentin had walked off with her. But it’s hard to hold on to that thought when the flesh-and-blood version of Quentin is sitting opposite him, looking very adorable in his (ugh, slightly oil-stained, he’ll have to get rid of that tonight) blue tunic. 

Also, there’s a small part of Eliot’s mind that’s reminding him that maybe, just maybe, Eliot helped things along a little there, and perhaps Quentin looked more confused than happy when he walked off with Arie, _and he did cast that ludicrous locator charm to find Eliot, didn’t he?_

The memory of the locator charm reminds Eliot of something that makes him wince: his doomed adventure with Lunk. That part of the evening was very uncomfortable. His desire for Lunk - not to mention acting on his desire for Lunk - feels oddly out of place right now. Not that it’s any of Quentin’s business who Eliot has sex with - or tries to have sex with, whatever. 

Then there’s also the part of how pearshaped the evening went, all the way from accidentally sobering Lunk up to blinding him with Eliot’s glowing hand, and then, _instead of explaining or trying to smooth things over,_ bursting into hysterical laughter. No wonder Lunk took off, he must have thought Eliot was trying to ridicule him. Or something. 

There’s another part of Eliot that feels uncomfortable about last night’s events. Remembering his hands pinned above his head, not being able to move… But there’s an even deeper part of him that doesn’t want to think about that, so he lets it go. 

He needs to focus on something else. The food, the blanket, Quentin, Quentin’s new clothes, Quentin’s hair…

Eliot frowns. ‘Not that I’m someone who tells another man how to dress himself-’

‘Fully understandable when complaining incessantly about it gets you just as far,’ Quentin says, fixing himself another spiced honey cake. 

Eliot ignores this. ‘- but you should put your hair up in a bun.’

‘Really? I thought maybe it was a bit too dressy for this space. I mean, for home wear,’ Quentin adds, catching Eliot’s expression. ‘Not that I’d ever expect you to dress down, I mean you always look spectacular-’

‘Thank you. And, look, you don’t have to wear it up if it’s not comfortable.’ Eliot knows Margo never liked the feeling of having her hair tied up; he swears that girl had additional nerve points in her scalp, it’s just one of those things. 

But if it’s not discomfort... Eliot pauses and considers this. ‘Why do you think people like dressing up?’

‘Because they want to impress other people,’ Quentin says, with certainty.

_Ah._

‘I think that’s what some people would like other people to believe,’ Eliot says, carefully. 

Quentin nods. ‘Yeah. Like, the fashion industry who want people to believe that they will only be seen as fully human if they wear a certain brand of clothing.’

‘Mhm,’ Eliot says. ‘Yes. Less so a problem in Fillory, of course.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. If Sylvia started stitching her initials on shirts like the one you’re wearing-’

Eliot suppresses an eye roll. ‘Cotehardie, Q. Or a tunic for those less cultured among us.’

‘Exactly,’ Quentin says, pointing an accusing finger at Eliot. ‘You see what I mean? I show my ignorance in _one_ aspect of fashion and you basically accuse me of being a caveman.’

Not Eliot’s words, but point taken.

‘You’re right and I apologise,’ Eliot says, carefully. Quentin huffs, but butters another honey cake, which Eliot takes as a not bad sign. Normally he’d let the conversation go at this point, but… they’re talking about something Eliot happens to care about a lot. 

So he proceeds. ‘Look… How did you feel wearing the items Sylvia handed you yesterday?’

Quentin shifts a little. ‘Good, I guess,’ he says. ‘I mean, the fabric had a nice feel to it. But that’s quality, right? Most stuff Sylvia had, had a nice feel to it-

‘Did everything she gave you yesterday feel nice?’

Quentin thinks for a moment. ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘There was some stuff at the beginning that was made from, I don’t know, like velvet, I really didn’t like that feeling-

‘Right, and after that, nothing Sylvia gave you was made from that material. And what did you think when you looked in the mirror in that first outfit? The one with the red suspenders.’

Quentin frowns. He imperceptibly sits up a little straighter. ‘I… thought I looked good. Unpretentious. Like me,’ he adds. ‘Just more of me.’

‘And did you feel comfortable wearing that outfit?’ Eliot presses on.

‘I mean, I guess…’

‘And did you think the stuff I was wearing was pretentious?’ Eliot says, relentlessly.

Quentin looks at Eliot and gives him the once over. ‘I mean, I’d never wear what you’re wearing,’ he says finally. ‘It’s too frilly for me, and I don’t get how you manage to remember to close all those buttons.’

‘Superior intelligence, baby,’ Eliot says, which gets a smile from Quentin at least.

‘But on you all this stuff looks… good. You look great, in fact. More like you... _Ah_.’

‘Yes,’ Eliot says, patiently. ‘And if you could choose, would you wear your hoodie or the shirt you’re wearing right now?’

‘I mean, that’s obvious. Of course I’d wear my hoodie. If it wasn’t ripped, I mean. It feels comfortable,’ Quentin says. ‘That’s why I wore it for so long.’ 

_Brat._ ‘Okay,’ Eliot says patiently. ‘And now imagine wearing the hoodie and looking at your reflection in Sylvia’s mirror.’

‘I mean, I did, before she made me strip and put on the other stuff.’

‘ _Answer the question, Coldwater.’_

There’s a pause. ‘Okay, I think I know what you mean,’ Quentin says slowly. ‘I like the way I look in this outfit, and it’s not uncomfortable. Like fashion usually is.’ 

Eliot sighs. He gets it. He knows that there’s a huge misunderstanding in the world that looking good or, gods forbid, _fashionable_ , somehow means feeling perpetually uncomfortable. There are obviously enough fashion designers who perpetuate the myth with anorexic models and simply uncomfortable designs, so it’s not all unfounded, but Eliot knows that’s not true for everyone and he resents the idea that just because something is comfortable, you're not going to look good in it by definition. 

‘I do feel better in this outfit,’ Quentin says slowly. ‘Not just because I know other people will think I look good in it. But, um, because I like how I look in it?’ He blinks. ‘Doesn’t admitting that make me incredibly shallow?’

‘Q, baby,’ Eliot says, ‘You’ve just discovered the only reason it pays to look good. You don’t dress well to impress other people. You dress well to impress yourself.’ He’s proud of how that came out. And really, it’s almost true. Eliot would never dress to impress another person; he dresses in whatever way makes him feel more like Eliot Waugh, Prince of Brakebills. 

(The fact that he’s also the best dressed man in the room and all eyes are on him as he walks across the wooden floorboards in the cottage, fixing himself and Margo another classy cocktail that happens to be colour-coordinated with their matching outfits, is a happy coincidence.)

‘That’s beginning to sound a lot like those self help books that say you need a healthy relationship with yourself before you can have a functional relationship with someone else-’

‘Yeah, those books are bullshit,’ Eliot says. Having a functional relationship with oneself. _Please, bitch._ If God had created humankind with the ability to have a functional relationship with themself, why had She in Her infinite wisdom also created alcohol? Anyway. It’s time to bring this conversation back full circle. 

‘Okay, Q, I guess what I’ve been trying to say… You get to wear what you like. As long as it makes you feel _more like Quentin,_ and not less.’

This has a surprising effect on Quentin, who scrunches up his face and blinks a few times. Eliot knows better than to say anything, though he watches Quentin carefully. Quentin says something quietly.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘I said, even if it’s the hoodie?’

Eliot takes a deep breath. ‘Seriously? Does that thing make you feel more like yourself?’

‘Sometimes myself wants to hide,’ Quentin says quietly. ‘Sometimes I don’t think there’s enough of me for there to be more of.’

There’s a pause. 

Quentin adds, ‘But... I also understand what you’re trying to say. And I’ll consider it.’ He takes a deep breath and then pulls his hair back in a move that seems oddly practised; suddenly, his face is just _there_ again instead of hiding behind that infernal drape of hair, and Eliot catches his breath. 

He suppresses the urge to tell Quentin he looks amazing. That would defeat the purpose. Instead, he answers Quentin’s smile with one of his own.

‘This still makes it the most shallow conversation I’ve had all year,’ Quentin says and ducks, laughing, as Eliot throws a piece of honey cake at him.

***

By unspoken agreement, they decide to make the most of the day by being useful, not in a let’s-solve-the-mosaic-and-crack-the-beauty-of-all-life fashion, but in a domestic way that is unlike the days they have spent on the mosaic so far. Quentin goes back to mending stuff, and Eliot cleans the cottage. 

The mattress is brought out and aired. He dusts away the cobwebs from various corners of the cottage, ushering the grumpy owners into their new outdoor environment to meet new friends and, presumably, a vast variety of exciting predators. Various chairs are upturned on the table before the floor is swept and then mopped and then left to dry. Tuts are said over a bucket with spring water, which, once it is warm and soapy, is used to clean the windows, all four of them, inside and outside, until Eliot is sure the light inside will never again be dusty. 

The sun is shining low through the branches when he and Quentin start putting things back into the cottage, starting with their shared mattress, the chair with the (no longer) wobbly leg, followed by a cup with a functioning handle (‘Where else will we get our Russian roulette kick from if we don’t know who’s going to be scalded with coffee whenever the handle falls off?’ Eliot says and gets a well-deserved eye roll), followed by the iron grate in front of the fireplace, no longer rusty, and an assortment of other things that look, well, as good as new, if not better. 

They’re standing in the entrance of the cottage admiring their handiwork. Eliot has never seen the cottage as home, not the way the Cottage at Brakebills was, but as he looks over this space, now clean and fresh and, yes, a little sparkly, a quiet sense of domesticity and accomplishment settles over him. It’s odd. What’s that expression, baptism by fire? Baptism by water, more like. He knows that that’s not what the proverb means but it feels oddly appropriate in this context; it’s though by cleaning the cottage there is now more space; enough for himself and Quentin to unfold themselves into it. 

The warm evening rays of the sun that cast the cottage and its surroundings into a warm, comfortable light begin to fade as the day turns to dusk. Eliot lights the torches around the mosaic; the evening seems to call for that. By the time he’s finished, Quentin has placed their breakfast blanket on the mosaic and has set down two glasses and a small pitcher of what looks like elderberry wine. 

‘It’s elderberry cordial,’ Quentin says, following his gaze. ‘Non-alcoholic. Arie’s father gave it to me when I helped bring Arie back yesterday. I thought, maybe we should celebrate?’

That’s fine with Eliot. He doesn’t really feel like drinking anything fermented; not yet, at least. As uncomfortable as the cleansing spell was, he knows that his body is currently the most free from toxins it has ever been in the past year, and having cleaned the cottage from top to bottom he doesn’t feel the need to change that yet. He squats down next to Quentin, overbalancing a bit so one of his knees lands on Quentin’s leg. He’s about to move but Quentin shrugs and pats Eliot’s leg as though to say, no worries, I don’t mind. 

Feeling the warmth of Quentin’s leg next to his makes Eliot feel… well, the way he always feels when some parts of Quentin are touching him. A little bit self-conscious, a little bit warm, a little bit… something he can’t label. Usually, when he feels this way he feels the urge to drink, and that urge is definitely there, but… something about the day makes him happy to just observe the urge. Perhaps they can co-exist peacefully. 

It’s a beautiful evening. 

‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Quentin says, handing Eliot a glass of elderberry cordial, which feels cool to the touch. Tiny droplets of water run down Eliot’s hand. ‘You know why we’re celebrating, right?’

‘You mean, besides the fact that we basically just Marie Kondoed our home?’

Quentin smiles a little, almost ruefully, as though he’s about to impart some difficult news and he’s not sure how Eliot will take it.

‘Um, yes, obviously that’s… great. I mean, it looks so fresh and clean. But we’re also celebrating… our anniversary.’

This makes no sense to Eliot.

‘I mean, our first anniversary living here. Um. By the mosaic,’ Quentin adds.

 _Ah._ Eliot lets the words sink in. He feels that if he had heard these words yesterday he would have felt… heavier. Certainly more inclined to drink. 

And it’s not as if the news makes him want to burst out in celebration right now. But he also knows that it hasn’t been a bad day - well, half of the day has not been bad - and that he’s sitting on a blanket with someone who cares enough about their life here to make it more enjoyable, or at least functional. Heck, Quentin cared enough to spend an afternoon mending stuff around the cottage, cared enough to feed both of them, and apparently cared enough to mark this day with some kind of celebration. He feels like he owes Quentin... well, if not enthusiasm, something that’s light and not heavy, at least. 

Quentin, who is still wearing his adorable man bun, who is watching him with a curious smile. 

Eliot raises a glass. ‘Well, Q, to our first and very last year here,’ he says. They clink glasses. Drink. 

And then Quentin says, ‘Um.’ Moves forward. And kisses Eliot.

When Eliot opens his eyes again, Quentin’s face is half smiling, half apologetic; _well, what can I do?_ It seems to be saying

And before Eliot knows what is happening, he’s reaching out himself. Placing his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, drawing him closer. Kissing him back. 

There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then Quentin melts into the kiss. His lips relax, wander, are parted; there’s a feeling of softness and warmth as his mouth opens a little more, hesitatingly, giving Eliot’s access, giving Eliot’s tongue the space to explore. 

So Eliot… takes a metaphorical step back. He lets his lips linger on Quentin’s for one second, then another.... 

He has never been able to tell another person, not even Margo, but this exact moment, doing what he is doing right now, is something he lives for. It’s a moment to take in the other person completely, to take in their smell, to see whether someone melts into the kiss or not. It’s normally the moment Eliot knows whether he is going to be enjoying the next few minutes or hours profusely, whether he will have to put in a bit of extra effort, or whether a quick happy ending and an _oops, sorry, just couldn’t control myself, it’s been great, I’ll see you around_ and a hasty exit are in order. 

It’s perhaps why something felt off with Lunk yesterday. Wrong time, wrong place, perhaps. 

And then any thought of Lunk is extinguished. 

He was too drunk last time they did it, too drunk to remember. And so even though Eliot has not allowed himself dwell the thought, he has wondered what this moment would be like, how Quentin would taste, would smell, and now Eliot knows. Quentin tastes like exactly like Quentin: a kind of wholesome groundedness like earth and fireflies and wine and _Eliot wants more of it right now_.

He cups Quentin’s cheek with his other hand, pulling him forward towards him, and finds to his delight that Quentin is already moving forward, his mouth pressing hungrily against Eliot’s. Somewhere at the back of his mind Eliot notes that Quentin kisses exactly as you would expect him to: hungrily, sloppily, with little technique but pure dedication of the kind Quentin gives to anything he finds interesting or wonderful. Quentin’s right hand is tangled in Eliot’s curls, giving them a light tug every now and then, and Eliot wonders if Quentin somehow read the manual on What Gets Eliot Off or if this is just another amazing turn of events during a very strange day. Then Eliot decides he no longer cares and lets himself fall into the moment.

Their kisses become hungrier, more urgent. Eliot’s hands are under Quentin’s shirt and he is running them up and down Quentin’s back, his last surviving brain cell marveling at the soft skin he feels, at the muscles he traces under the skin, the shoulder blades that jut out, the small patch of soft hair under Quentin’s armpit. There’s kissing, there’s touching, and then there’s the fact that Eliot really, really likes Kissing and Touching the people he’s with, and that he’s wanted to touch this particular enthusiastic specimen of a man for a long time and feel every inch of his body. His hands feel like there’s electricity flowing through them, just like when he’s about to tut. Judging by Quentin’s ragged breaths and deliciously small moans, Eliot isn’t the only one enjoying himself. As Eliot gently hooks a thumb into Quentin’s pants, Quentin’s grip on Eliot’s curls tightens and Eliot’s head is pulled back. He lets himself fall roughly onto the ground, Quentin falling somewhat inelegantly on top of him.There’s a moment of breathlessness as both magicians sort out their limbs and make sure the other is alright. When Eliot has gathered his breath and bearings, Quentin’s face is inches from his own, lips red and wet, eyes alight with a fire Eliot recognises from Quentin’s first days at Brakebills when Quentin realised that _Magic was real_. It’s enough to make Eliot come undone. 

‘Q,’ he breathes, ‘Oh, shit…’

In response, Quentin just leans forward and kisses Eliot again, hard and desperately, making little urgent sounds which somehow just _do it_ for Eliot. His body feels like it’s on fire, at least the parts of his body that are touching Quentin, those parts being touched by Quentin. This isn’t the kind of sex Eliot usually has: the one where he feels in control from the start, where he has at least one or two things in mind, where he spends his sweet time teasing his partner into a horny, Eliot-worshipping frenzy. 

This is pure desperation on both sides as though some kind of dam has suddenly burst. Eliot feels the need to devour Quentin fully and be consumed in return. Little flashes of light flicker across his vision whenever Quentin kisses his mouth, sucks on his lip, his chin, his neck…

‘Need to touch you,’ Eliot whispers urgently, which is answered by Quentin’s groan and Quentin’s hands which are - _gods, they’re shaking_ \- pulling down his trousers, allowing Eliot access. There’s a moment of almost reverence as Eliot’s hand feels the soft skin of Quentin’s cock, runs his fingers from top to bottom and over the top, which elicits a wonderful sound from Quentin. Eliot briefly lets go of Quentin’s cock - Quentin’s eyes open a little, giving Eliot the beginnings of a quizzical look - and Eliot performs a quick one-handed tut that he has spent a long time perfecting. His newly lubricated hand slides down Quentin and cups his balls, marveling; he can comfortably cover Quentin’s balls with one hand. Quentin makes a sound he has not made before and actually pulls away from Eliot, burying his head in Eliot’s chest. 

‘Fuck, El,’ he manages. Eliot plants a quick kiss on his head, which makes Quentin look up and focus his somewhat drunken gaze on Eliot. He smiles, a smile that turns into a quiet _oh_ as Eliot’s lubricated hands begin to stroke his cock again. Eliot’s a tall man. Eliot’s lubricated hand can fit all around Quentin’s shaft, and when he looks up, Quentin’s face is wearing a look of anguish and wonder.

‘Fuck, El, no, if you keep this up, I’ll… I’ll…’ Quentin says through gritted teeth, moving his hips ever so slightly sideways, but Eliot suddenly realises he needs to see Quentin come, _he wants to see Quentin come right now_ , so he grabs Quentin’s hair a little more tightly (this has produced some of the deeper moans on Quentin’s side and does not disappoint this time either), his hand continuing to engulf and encompass Quentin’s cock, strong fingers moving deftly to the rhythm of Quentin’s fast-beating heart. ‘We have all night to do it again,’ Eliot says, urgently. ‘Come for me, Q, please, you’re so beautiful, I need you to come for me, I need to see you-’

The sound Quentin makes as he comes in Eliot’s strong grip is loud and urgent. Quentin _almost but not quite_ collapses on top of Eliot, trapping Eliot’s hand between them. Eliot’s other hand moves down from Quentin’s hair to his back, holding him. It takes Quentin a full minute to recover, and when he does push himself off Eliot and props himself up next to him, he’s shaking a little, although from the gently chilling night air or from the orgasm, Eliot isn’t sure. 

‘Fuck,’ Quentin says softly. ‘El… Shit, I… I mean, you haven’t-’ He starts as though he’s about to get up, but Eliot places one hand on his chest, stopping him. He could carry Quentin back to the cottage, he could spend the rest of the night making Quentin come again and again until he wouldn’t know which way was up or down. But… there’s something about the deeply undone way Quentin is looking at him right now that makes Eliot feel as though he needs to show himself too. 

‘Don’t,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m almost there too. I want to see you when I come. Just stay there.’ 

‘I want to help,’ Quentin says. He reaches out gingerly and grabs Eliot’s cock, starts stroking it, up and down. Eliot smiles, and then carefully but firmly takes Quentin’s hand and places it on his balls. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘I want you… if you don’t mind…’

‘El, fuck,’ is all Quentin can say, and the next few minutes Eliot loses himself, stroking himself, watching Quentin, whose breathing is getting faster, whose mouth is still very pink and is still very urgently looking at Eliot as though he has never seen anything more beautiful. 

‘Gods, El,’ Quentin says, ‘I know you like clothes, but you don’t need them, just look at you-’

Eliot wasn’t lying. He comes hard seconds later, his vision briefly turning white, his thoughts going blank. 

When the world returns, it returns in the form of small kisses that Quentin is bestowing almost gingerly on his mouth.

‘Fuck, El,’ Quentin says. There’s a small pause, then a little laugh. ‘I know I sound like a broken record. But…’

‘Yeah, fuck,’ Eliot says, grinning. He moves closer to Quentin and is delighted when the other magician copies him, his body moving so it’s almost on top of Eliot’s again. Their shirts have been pushed up by their movements and their groping, so they can feel the warmth of each other’s torsos; their pants jumbled around their knees. Quentin’s thigh is draped over Eliot’s, both of them slightly sticky. It’s a wonderful feeling.

Post-coital cuddling is a thing Eliot does. On the one occasion that a man had made a hasty exit after his own orgasm, Eliot had lain awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, until he couldn’t take it anymore and had run down the corridor and knocked on Margo’s door. Whenever he comes with someone else he feels the physical need to hold another human body. Fortunately, Quentin is apparently similarly inclined, or it’s possible that the orgasm has really knocked him out. Eliot hopes that’s not the case; he’s sort of hoping they can do this again, and maybe again and then another time. This could just be a one night thing, an urgent something brought on by feelings… but somehow Eliot doesn’t think so. If he’s right, he’s going to _do_ things to Quentin, and he itends to take all night.

Quentin is saying something. 

‘Hmm?’ Eliot says, moving his head a little so he can hear better. 

‘I said, did you mean what you said earlier?’ Quentin is saying. His head is lying on Eliot’s chest, one hand holding Eliot’s sleeve, the other gently tugging on Eliot’s collar. It’s letting in the cold air around Eliot’s neck, but Eliot is not going to complain at this point.

‘What did I say earlier?’ 

Quentin pushes himself up. It’s hard to make out his facial expression because of the way his head is blocking the light from one of the torches, but it seems like he’s smiling. 

‘You said… we had all night… and that sounded like…’ 

Eliot breathes out. One hand reaches up, traces the outline of Quentin’s lip. He can feel Quentin’s cock twitch against his thigh, once, twice. 

He gets up, reaches down and pulls Quentin up. Not letting go of Quentin’s hand, he pulls him towards the cottage, towards a space that is waiting to be filled with lustful sounds and sweat and other wonders. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little bit longer to write (although I'm still committed to following my plan and updating on a weekly basis) because honestly, I was embarrassed. A big thank-you goes to Izzy for being an amazing Beta and getting me through that! More smut to follow - that was why I set out to write this fic, after all, although it turned into something bigger pretty fast.


	6. Eliot makes pancakes, Quentin admires a bracelet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... we're getting into tougher territory, folks. 
> 
> Trigger warning: (mentioned) homophobia, panic attacks, discussion of what kind of weapons a woman might need on the road to defend herself (so discussion of weapons and mention of violence).

A panic attack is not a pleasant thing to have under normal circumstances. Eliot discovers the hard way (when he wakes up, heart hammering as though it’s about to burst in his chest, lungs gasping for air, always air) that it’s especially unpleasant when there’s a gorgeous naked man draped over his chest.

His mind knows that what he's experiencing is a panic attack - that is, it knows that he’s not dying of a heart attack, that there is enough oxygen in his body as long as he doesn’t start hyperventilating and passing out - but his body isn't too convinced. To make matters worse, all of his usual coping mechanisms are cut off. Or rather, they involve the removal of Quentin’s arm and leg, flung over Eliot like a dead weight. 

Eliot’s already sweating, and he knows his face will be white, his pupils dilated. It’s not a pretty sight to see - Margo had reassured him of this, even as she passed him a glass of water as she continued to hold him, hugging his shaking frame from behind. 

_We can get through this, El, you’ve been here often enough. Just breathe. Breathe._

Eliot focuses on his breath. It’s not enough to stem the panic in his chest, but enough to give his body a moment of respite, his brain cells some energy to focus.

He’s a magician, for goodness sake. He can deal with this.

Quentin doesn’t wake up as his body is levitated a few inches in the air, but he makes a small noise as he settles back into the Eliot-shaped imprint on the bed, mutters something, and slumbers on. 

Outside the air has that particularly soft, Turner-painting-esque feel to it, which adds to Eliot’s feeling of unreality. He crouches on the ground, head in his hands, taking deep, steady breaths. Focuses on the ground under his feet. 

Gradually, the world relaxes and slides back into focus. Shakily, Eliot gets up and walks to the stream. Water is needed. Some food perhaps. 

This has never happened after a night of… well. It had not been the usual level of cocaine-filled debauchery, with the same number of partners, and the variety of toys at their disposal. Sex with Quentin was… _tame_ compared to that. 

(Not that it wasn’t... fun. Underneath the adrenaline, Eliot’s body feels like a body that has enjoyed several intense orgasms.)

_(The feeling of being held and holding the body of this particular man. Kissing his chin, tasting his body, listening to his surprised gasps of pleasure, gradually deepening into moans that take on a volume he would not have associated with the nerdy, quiet magician. The feeling of This. This is just right.)_

It’s not him, it’s Quentin, Eliot decides as he splashes cold water on his face. It’s clearly Quentin. His mind is remembering how Quentin reacted after their last adventure, and he knows they cannot afford that. Not here, not now. Not on this quest

He suddenly knows what he has to do, and the thought provides him with a sense of purpose. His heart is still hammering in his chest fit to burst, but it's as though someone's opened the door a tiny crack and there's space on the other side. 

***

When Quentin stumbles out of bed several hours later, the birds are singing in the canopy, which filters soft, misty light onto a blanket laid out with the splendours of breakfast: an earthen, slightly crooked pot smelling of coffee, a small pile of pancakes whose steam envelops a small bowl with various red and blue berries. 

Eliot is sprawled out on the ground next to this breakfast. He wears clothes that look too fancy for the middle of the forest and yet somehow do not look out of place on him. The top button of his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a hint of his chest and his collarbone. 

Quentin, stumbling out of the cottage, blinks as he takes this in, the breakfast, the morning light, the unbuttoned shirt, and certainly the collarbone.

‘El, hey! Uh, this looks, uh, amazing. Have you been waiting long?’

‘Hardly,’ Eliot lies, offering the plate of pancakes to Quentin, who plops himself down on the other side of the breakfast blanket. Long is a matter of perspective, after all, and achieving _this_ kind of effortlessness requires at least two hours of intensive preparation. Also, his lungs are now taking in this oxygen. ‘Cream?’

‘As long as it’s not made from centaur’s breast milk.’ 

‘Of course not. We stopped buying from that trader at least a month after we discovered who his milk supplier was, remember?’ 

Quentin snorts, but he’s tucking into his plate of pancakes and berries with the singular focus of a man who is making up for calories burnt. Eliot watches this, a feeling of satisfaction beginning to settle in his chest. 

He’s already started counting down in his mind. 

When Quentin says, ‘So, um, about last night,’ Eliot is ready.

‘Yeah, Q. So why don’t we save our overthinking for the mosaic?’ The voice is the same voice he used at Castle Whitespire, a voice befitting a High King, the kind that says nothing of substance with complete certainty. _‘An intriguing proposal, we will ponder on it.’ ‘My astronomers will make the necessary calculations and will let you know next week.’ ‘That centaur will stop laughing when his house burns down.’_

He’s glad that after this morning, his voice comes out calm and reassuring. It works on everyone except Margo, who just rolls her eyes at him, heartbreaker that she is. 

There is a moment of hesitation. And Quentin smiles. A real smile, dimpled and relaxed, and Eliot breathes a quiet sigh of relief. _See,_ he tells himself. _No need to worry._

He makes his decision then: there will be no seduction on his side. None, Eliot tells himself sternly, watching Quentin pick up a berry and stick it in his mouth, his eyes turning soft with pleasure with the release of the juice. 

Of course, this going to be hard as fuck. Now that he’s more calm, and details of last night have begun to flood back, Eliot has to grudgingly admit that having sex with Quentin is not just satisfying on a physical level, but that there are parts of Eliot that feel as though t _his was the only thing worth doing_ , that exploring this man’s body and devouring it inch-by-inch is the reason for Eliot Waugh’s existence, that he will only find fulfillment if he can do so again, as soon as possible. 

It doesn’t get better after breakfast. Eliot realises that it is going to take an infuriating amount of energy to not get a hard-on whenever Quentin smiles at him, passes him a tile, or squats down to fit a tile into the pattern.

Fine, whatever. Eliot's dealt with cute people before. He's dealt with cute people and their significant other before. Eliot designates himself as the pattern overseer, sitting on the high chair ("the throne")

Whatever last night was has been enough; whatever urges Quentin had, at least some of them have been quenched by now.

_Best let things go. Plan the next trip to the village tavern. See how Silas is getting on._

‘Uh, El? You were going to say when I needed to stop using the greens, right?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Eliot looks down guiltily at the row of green tiles that is breaking a pleasing pattern of blue and purple stripes. ‘You were doing it so well, I didn’t want to stop you.’

‘Yeah? How about you come down here and stop me breaking that tile over your head?’ Quentin is shaking the tile at Eliot, and there is real outrage there; building the mosaic is tedious enough as it is without having to back-track.

Nevertheless. There’s no reason to threaten a man with violence.‘Yeah? Come at me, Coldwater,’ Eliot grins. He has a sudden moment of deja-vu. 

Quentin’s gaze softens. He steps on the ladder leading up to the seat and climbs up until his hands are resting on the rungs next to Eliot’s hip. There’s a strand of hair hanging out of his man bun, and a small patch on his cheek the razor didn’t catch. He looks flushed and, in Eliot’s eyes, extremely cute and edible. 

‘What if I did something else?’ Quentin asks. Slowly, deliberately, places one hand on Eliot’s thigh, drawing small circles with his finger. ‘What if…’ he licks his lips nervously, a small blush spreading across his face. 

Eliot feels his heartbeat increase. Okay. _Okay._

‘Yes?’ he says softly. One of his hands reaches out and gently runs through Quentin’s mop of hair, tugging it _accidentally_ _-_ _on_ _-_ _purpose._ Quentin’s eyes darken. 

_Darling boy._

‘I was wondering,’ Quentin said, licking his lips, which are dry. ‘I want to suck you off, El. I want to… I want to taste you. I’ve been dreaming about it all morning during breakfast, and now at the mosaic. And I mean, I know we did it last night, but, I figured, well, you’re used to. Um. Enjoying yourself more often? So maybe, that would be… it would be okay?’’ The last part is said cautiously, as though Eliot was someone who would _mind_ Quentin sucking him off, like there was ever going to be any objection to that scenario in any sort of universe. 

Fuck, this is the kind of scenario that deserves a fanfare and its own parade. 

Quentin has that hesitant, puppy-face expression on his face, lips and cheeks slightly flushed, while simultaneously having that defiant _well, how would you feel in my position?_ look on his face. It's utterly adorable. So much in fact that Eliot does something unlike himself. Instead of pulling down his pants in a commanding-yet-elegant movement befitting one Eliot Waugh or making a quip about how Quentin’s mouth was clearly made to take Eliot’s dick, he cups Quentin’s face with both hands and brings their lips together.

Quentin’s lips are soft and pliant, and it feels like a small age before they break apart. Quentin’s eyes are dark and his face is very, very flushed, and he’s gazing up at Eliot in some kind of wonder and honestly, Eliot knows that’s the kind of thing that would make Bambi roll her eyes and mouth _‘issues’_ at but the fact that this is Quentin looking at him in that way is really doing it for him right now.

He gently takes Quentin’s hand and places it where his erection is beginning to form, gently directing Quentin’s hands through the fabric. Quentin immediately gets it and sets about exploring, all the while alternating between gazing at Eliot’s face and then down at Eliot’s crotch, his face bright with wonder. There’s still a few layers of clothing separating Quentin’s hand from Eliot’s dick, but the warmth and Quentin’s eyes and sitting on this chair is really doing it for Eliot, and his cock stands to easy attention in Quentin’s grasp. 

‘Time to impress your High King with your sucking skills,’ Eliot says. Quentin’s eyes brighten perceptively, but there’s also something else, and he shifts a bit. 

‘Um. So, that’s clearly doing something for me, just… maybe not yet? I mean, I guess I’d love playing… your servant, or whatever, but this is still new to me? And-’

Eliot smiles and cups Quentin’s face. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly, ‘For telling me that.’

He means it. He noticed it last night: Quentin’s good at telling Eliot what he doesn’t like in bed, which is a gift in a sexual partner Eliot would gladly do the dishes for and solve another mosaic any day. (Well, most days.)

(He isn’t sure Quentin’s equally good at telling Eliot what he likes yet, but they can work up to that.

If Quentin wants to keep doing what they’re doing right now, of course.)

Quentin smiles back, a little hesitantly. ‘I mean it though. I really do want to suck you off.’

This doesn’t need more encouragement. Eliot swiftly unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants, briefly enjoying the sensation of sitting his bare ass on a warm, wooden seat. Even more pleasing is Quentin’s expression of wonderment as Eliot’s cock stands before him, upright and proud. There’s a moment of hesitation - which Eliot gets. It’s one thing to feel Eliot’s cock during urgent fumbling on the mosaic and another to have it literally _in your face_ in all its glory. 

And there is a lot of that glory to take in. 

Eliot has never understood the urge society seemed to feel for a larger-than-average cock. He has one, and if experience has taught him anything it it’s that most people want a normal-sized cock, the kind that is easy to take into your mouth and on good days, ass; not the kind that makes people’s brows briefly furrow and start a mental process containing calculations of radius and diameter. (Another reason to get whoever he’s with good and horny before Eliot fully undresses himself, Eliot has found; that, and non-compromisingly, excellent communication skills.)

Luckily, Quentin doesn’t seem to hesitate long. He grips Eliot’s cock almost reverently and gazes up at Eliot with dark eyes. 

‘My king,’ he says, then licks the top of Eliot’s cock, all the while maintaining eye-contact with Eliot, who _hisses_. 

‘Yes, Q, just like… just like that,’ he says, and then groans as Quentin takes him into his mouth. 

Quentin gives head the way he kisses: sloppy, without technique, but with a kind of dedication and enthusiasm that somehow does more for Eliot than the memorable night with the professional gigolo in Ibiza. There’s also the fact that Quentin is making what Eliot is privately beginning to refer to as _cute Quentin sex noises_ which are as adorable as much as they are an incredible turn-on, because the thought hits him like a ton of bricks - he can tell Quentin isn’t just doing this to please him , _Quentin is getting pleasure from sucking Eliot off as well._

‘Fuck, Quentin,’ he hisses urgently. Quentin looks up without breaking his rhythm, and the sight of Quentin’s flushed mouth and dark eyes almost _wrecks_ Eliot. He groans loudly, looks up and tries to focus on the canopy. He will not come momentarily. That is simply not happening. This sensation is something that needs to be drawn out, for years preferably, after which he will spend several years in turn sucking Quentin off. So. There’s green leaves and an amazing view from up here, something he can distract himself with, and it seems to help for a second, until Quentin does something with his tongue and Eliot’s brought back to earth, or at least the high chair, with a moan. 

‘Beautiful... boy,’ he says with difficulty, stroking Quentin’s head, and then, remembering something from last night, pulls a tuft of hair. The effect is immediate. Quentin moans and resumes his sucking with even more vigour, then reaches out and starts fondling Eliot’s balls with one hand. 

‘Yeah? You like that? My sweet, gorgeous boy,’ Eliot says, gently tugging different strands of Quentin’s hair. Quentin’s moans reverberate through Eliot’s dick, his balls, his body, until Eliot releases the tension via his own groan, which in turn seems to increase Quentin’s enthusiasm for taking Eliot into his mouth. 

‘Gods… Q, you have to… You have to let me, I need you in my mouth, I want…’ Eliot knows he’s a talker in bed, always has been, but this is _undoing him_ , he needs to touch and taste and suck Quentin, he wants to wreck this beautiful specimen of a man that’s standing below him, the one that’s doing such a good job of sucking off his friend, his king…

He’s not sure what does it for him afterwards. Maybe it’s, yeah, the fact that Quentin briefly called him his _king_ and is now essentially blowing him on what they sometimes refer to jokingly as their throne, perhaps it’s the fact that he hears Quentin say ‘want you to come in my mouth, El,’ and somehow all of that is enough to push him over the edge

‘Gonna come,’ he announces, ‘If you don’t want…’ Quentin looks up at him, eyes bright, and it’s very clear that he _does want,_ and suddenly Eliot is coming, coming, into Quentin’s mouth, and it is glorious and urgent and then he’s not sure what’s happening because everything briefly goes white and all he can do is hold on to Quentin’s hair and call his name, again and again.

***

It’s as though that morning blowjob is the start of an unspoken agreement of mutual enjoyment. There are now quick fumblings against the cottage wall, the smell of rosemary mixed with the sharpness of sweat and lavender scented soap. Longer, drawn out sessions sucking each other off on their bed inside the cottage. They do it on their new outdoor daybed, which, out of practical necessity, they fling the quilted breakfast blanket over, which looks so much in the right place that they just decide to leave it there. They start having breakfast on little chairs and a table outside, which would feel almost too civilised, except sometimes Eliot still catches Quentin looking at him and _inevitably_ Quentin almost blushes, which Eliot now knows means Quentin is thinking of something _filthy_ , which is excellent stuff and an obvious ingredient to any civilised breakfast.

Their new-found fumblings and kisses means that it’s often dark by the time they finish the mosaic pattern, but they manage to stay faithful to their rhythm of finishing one pattern a day. 

Eliot thinks that it’s going to take years to explore the ins and outs of Quentin’s body, which is good because it doesn’t feel like Quentin wants to stop exploring Eliot’s any time soon. After the first few times having sex, even Eliot gives up the pretense that this was just the two of them burning off excess energy. Eliot knows what that feels like, and this thing, right here, right now, with Quentin, is so beyond the urgent fumblings in a corner of a party or in the bathroom cubicle of some upmarket club it’s not worth thinking about. Eliot doesn’t know what this is, but for another rare moment in his life he feels as though everything in his life moved towards this point in time, _and he doesn’t know what to do with it._

Well, beyond the obvious of course. 

_How long do you want to do this?_ Eliot wonders but doesn’t ask as Quentin’s teeth graze his throat and he grabs Quentin’s hair and pulls, eliciting pleasing sounds from both of them. 

_Also, who are you? And what did you do with Quentin?_

It’s becoming pretty obvious that the change Eliot first saw in Quentin, standing straight-backed with a genuine smile in front of Sylvia’s mirror, is a Quentin he’s seeing more often. At first, Eliot makes himself believe that it’s all down to a new wardrobe - clothes make the man, after all - but if he is honest with himself, the changes had started to manifest themselves earlier. It’s most likely a combination of a life that has removed all stressors (goodbye exams, graduation, finding a 9-5 job, commuting, _etcetera and blah_ ) and instead become… simpler. Get up. Eat good food. Make a work of art. Eat more food. Finish work of art. An outdoor life of exercise, mixed with more sunlight than the average American with a home ever sees. 

And, of course, copious amounts of extremely mind-blowing sex. 

This doesn’t mean Quentin is a beaming ray of sunshine. (Eliot thinks he would be justified in yelling ‘changeling!’ and drowning Quentin in the stream if that happened. Plus who wants to hang out with someone who’s upbeat all the time?)

There are moments that are hauntingly familiar, when the usual anticlimactic _nothing_ that happens at the end of a long day constructing a new pattern, when Quentin’s gaze turns cloudy and he retreats into the cottage and lies on the bed, and not even a touch by Eliot elicits a reaction beyond a shrug.

Eliot tries not to be hurt by this. This side of Quentin has always been there, and it would be somewhat narcissistic to believe that regular sex with Eliot would cure him of that.   
  
(There’s a small part of him that still believes it though, and is hurt by the fact that that is not the case.)

But overall, Quentin seems happier. More joyful. Sometimes oddly confident. Like there’s more of… Quentin. So clearly, their arrangement is working for him. 

And obviously, it’s good for Eliot too. 

Eliot still drinks, of course. To take the edge off things, he tells himself during a stolen minute in the cottage kitchen. It’s practically part of his persona. And Quentin has shown that he likes what Eliot is, so not drinking would do Quentin injustice. Right? 

Right.

He doesn’t drink in front of Quentin if he can help it. Some days he drinks a little less, and some days need more courage. 

Like the day Sylvia comes for a visit

***

It’s after the hottest part of the day and they’ve already had a break, which was spent washing their bedsheets in the stream, mostly as an excuse to get into the water. Quentin’s hungry glances at Eliot’s half-naked body have been glorious to witness, but the memory of having to climb downstream for hours to retrieve their clothes for hours after their last happy let’s-have-some-fun-by-the-stream escapade is still fresh in his memory, so Eliot pretends to not see Quentin’s obvious flush and bulge in his pants, and manages to ignore his own urges. The cold water is helpful in that regard.

But Eliot is only human, and once they’re back by the mosaic, he makes a show of slowly taking off his green cotte and vest. He can practically feel Quentin’s gaze on him, and the next thing Eliot knows, he’s sitting on one of the chairs, Quentin on his lap, their erections grinding into one another. His hand is up Quentin’s shirt, and Quentin’s hands are in his hair, so it takes Eliot a few seconds to understand that the sound he’s hearing is a slow clap coming from the path next to the cottage. 

Their heads swivel around in unison.

‘Nice show, boys,’ Sylvia says, grinning. Even in his distracted state, Eliot can’t help but notice that she’s wearing something he would describe as _medieval hiking gear for women_ , if there ever was such a style , and, unbelievably, she’s making it look good _._

'And so appropriate next to a public footpath. Shall I tell the family behind me to break out the snacks?’

‘Uh, hi, uh, I mean, we, uh- _there’s a family_?’ a very flustered Quentin says, looking like he’s about ready to dissolve onto the floor, and starts readjusting his shirt. Eliot tugs it down slightly, pulling Quentin forward as he does so. 

‘Why don’t you go to the stream and freshen up? I’ll take care of our guest,’ Eliot murmurs, gently placing a kiss on Quentin’s forehead. They’re not usually this affectionate when they’re not having sex, but Quentin gratefully extracts himself and makes for the stream. 

Sylvia, it transpires, has not been standing there very long. 

‘As cute as you both are, non-consensual voyeurism isn’t really my thing,’ she says to Eliot, who is calmly pulling his pants on and adjusts his clothes. ‘Not that you are not making it easy for anyone who might want to. Also, once again, public footpath.’

‘That really doesn’t get used. Much. I promise.’ Eliot says, with as much dignity as one can muster with half an erection. 

He gets it though. Margo has given him enough grief about that time she walked in on him doing it on the kitchen counter, even though that _only happened_ _one time, sheesh_. 

_‘It’s my home too, El, and I did not consent to be part of your sex life.’ At Eliot’s raised eyebrow, she rolls her eyes. ‘At that moment, obv.’_

_‘Bambi, you’ve seen me naked. You like Mario, now you’ve seen him naked. What’s the deal?’_

_Margo takes a step closer to him. ‘The deal is, when you need an audience for your sex life, you ask,’ she says, slowly and deliberately. ‘The deal is, people get to say no. Always, El.’_

Sylvia raises an eyebrow and folds her arms, causing several bracelets to jingle.

Eliot closes his eyes. ‘Okay, but we will keep future visits from very important guests in mind,’ he groans. ‘However infrequent they are.’ There’s probably a ward they can put up, or something. 

'Glad to hear it. This does seem like a nice place for some fun,’ Sylvia adds, and something about her tone makes Eliot suddenly certain that this woman has lived a rich life full of _fun_ , and probably still does. 

‘Yeah, it’s a good diversion from our duties at the castle,’ he says with more honesty than he intended, but hey, _he was about to have sex with a gorgeous man, his brain hasn’t quite managed to switch yet, okay._ Luckily, the inanity of the statement only makes Sylvia cackle.

***

It only takes Eliot another twenty minutes or so to convince Quentin to come back up and say hello to their guest. 

Also, Eliot now knows that Quentin will never, ever engage in public sex again if there’s a chance he’ll be caught at it. Especially when there could be children walking down that path. And disappointed parents. And -

Fine. _Noted._ Eliot is really going to have to work on those wards. There’s no way he’s letting their new daybed go to waste.

Sylvia has already gotten the outdoor fire going, so Eliot places the coffeemaker on the grill while Sylvia gets a flustered Quentin to explain the ins and outs of their edible garden. It’s not even a garden, just a small bed with herbs, not counting the rosemary bush by the cottage, but Sylvia is basically complimenting everything and by the time the coffee is ready Quentin’s shoulders have relaxed and there's significantly less stuttering.

‘Gentlemen, I believe you ordered adjustments to your garments,’ Sylvia says when they’re seated around the campfire. (The pleasure of sitting on a chair without worrying about its impending collapse still hasn’t grown old on Eliot.) 

‘Ah, this is a celebration.’ Eliot says, toasting to her with an empty mug.

Sylvia waves him off. ‘Yes, yes. Before we get to any last adjustments, I’m here to discuss the issue of payment. One half in coin, one half in magical charms, I believe.’

‘Um, yes, that was the deal,’ Quentin says, pouring their coffee and handing one to Sylvia. ‘Did you have any particular charm in mind?’

‘Quentin has a spectacular hangover cure. I mean, it’s kill or cure, but if you happen to survive it’s pretty effective,’ Eliot says. Quentin shakes his head, but he’s smiling, one of his ridiculously cute, dimpled smiles that make Eliot’s stomach briefly dip. 

‘Medicinal support is not what I’m after, but thank you,’ Sylvia says. She picks up a small, velvet pouch that’s resting next to her foot and upends it; a small silver necklace, a long, green ribbon the local women use to tie up their hair, and a bronze earring with a green stone, all tumble out. 

Quentin and Eliot exchange glances. ‘Uh, I’m afraid we’re not good at creating jewelry?’ Quentin says. ‘We could refer you to a great knifemaker though. I mean, we know his son, but the talent runs in the family.’

Sylvia smiles at him, sweetly. ‘Nice of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary. This,’ she picks up the bracelet and hands it to Eliot, ‘Is real Lorian white gold; the only element that cannot be created magically.’

Eliot whistles, turning the bracelet around in his hand. It’s a delicate thing, three interwoven strands forming one brade, clearly made for delicate arms half the size of his own. ‘Sounds like it’s worth a lot. So you would like a charm so you can always find it again?’

Sylvia smiles. ‘No. I want you to magic each of these objects so they can be used as a weapon.’

 _Okay_ . So clearly this is _not_ what Eliot was expecting. He glances at Sylvia, who answers his gaze with a measured look while drinking from her mug. Once again, Eliot has the feeling that he’s not getting the depth of her.

‘These... aren’t exactly items a person would usually walk around with,’ Quentin says, furrowing his brow. 

‘You might not. I would,’ Sylvia says, easily. ‘Look, gentlemen, it’s simple. I’m a woman traveling by myself. I’m known for having some of the best quality cloth between here and the Lorian border. I’m safe at festivals because it’s considered bad form to rob merchants while they’re within the town walls, but on the road… that’s a different story. Times have been harder these past winters. I need to be able to defend myself. 

So I want you to turn each of these objects into a different kind of weapon. The magical kind.’

‘Like, uh, magical pepper-spray,’ Quentin says. ‘It’s like a small can you press, and then a spray of pepper shoots out and blinds your opponent.’ 

Sylvia smiles. ‘Thank you, Quentin. I’ve heard of pepper-spray, it’s a good example of a weapon that turns itself against the owner more often than not. All you need is a gust of wind and shaking hands under pressure. I’m a klutzy old woman. I don’t want to accidentally spray myself in the face.’

Eliot raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on the fact that her hands are holding a hot mug of coffee quite steadily. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘So you want something unobtrusive yet effective. Like an enchanted… hair ribbon that can strangle someone?’ Quentin shoots him a look like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Sylvia cackles. ‘Hark at the lad using his brain!'

‘Um, I’m not sure how I feel about making things that could kill,’ Quentin says, frowning.

Sylvia waves her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, killing is not something I want to make a hobby out of. Think of these weapons as being... on a continuum. Some people just need to be shown that robbing me is going to cause them more hassle than they bargained for. A small lightning bolt. The sound of howling wolves coming closer. Others might need a little more… persuading.

Quentin shifts on his seat. ‘Okay, so wolves I get. I still don’t know how I feel about giving you something that could hurt other people,’ he says quietly. ‘That seems like we’re giving you an unfair advantage.’

Sylvia gives him a long look. ‘I understand,’ she says. ‘The idea of hurting other people is something we balk at. Most people would rather get hurt than hurt someone else.’

‘Yeah,’ Quentin says, playing with his coffee cup. ‘Um, I mean, I couldn’t even stand up to my high school bully. My dad used to tell me to just punch him, but I felt that would have made me just as bad.’

Eliot has a sudden vision of his own high school bully and what happened to him, and draws his knees closer to himself. 

‘And did he stop?’ Sylvia asks. 

Quentin is quiet for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he says finally. ‘But only because he started bullying Julia because she was friends with me, and so I ended up punching him anyway. And then I got suspended. And then _he_ got suspended as well when Julia’s dad and my dad went and yelled at the school administration.’

‘It took you being suspended for your father to complain to the school administration?’ Eliot says, arching an eyebrow. He’s liked Quentin’s stories about his father, who seemed quiet but steady, unlike Eliot’s own father, whose temper could blow up a barn. (Metaphorically, of course, mainly because Eliot’s family couldn’t afford that amount of gunpowder.)

Quentin shrugs. ‘I mean, I guess I wasn’t very vocal about it before? Not when he told me to punch someone, and I didn’t do it. But when your kid comes home with a black eye and a two-week suspension, that’s probably enough motivation to go and yell at someone.’

Sylvia’s nods. ‘Okay, next question. If someone were to attack you here, at the mosaic, what would you do?’ 

Eliot looks at her sharply. He’s uncomfortably reminded of Lunk’s revelation that once again, Eliot is living in a homophobic world. Fine when you’re a king and married to a woman, probably less fine when you’re an eccentric outsider living in the middle of the woods with your… male companion, and a couple of the lads end up having too many drinks at the village tavern, and someone mentions that _those poofs haven’t paid for their latest shipment of carrot wine..._

He realises he’s twisting his marriage ring on his finger and makes himself stop.

Quentin looks flustered. ‘What? I mean, this is a beautiful place and we’re peaceful people, why would-’

‘No war has ever been stopped because of the beauty of the natural surroundings. And whether someone is attacked or not has _nothing_ to do with the person who is attacked, but everything to do with the person who’s doing the attacking.’ Sylvia says, smiling a little sadly.

Quentin frowns. ‘On Earth, yes, where there’s an overpopulation problem and all kinds of issues. But this is Fillory. If we’re just quietly living here-’

Sylvia interrupts him. ‘I’m sorry, Quentin, but that thought is a fallacy. It rests on the assumption that we live in a just world where deep down everyone gets what they deserve, and that’s not true. You need to accept that bad things happen to good people.’

‘Yes, that’s life, tough and sad, oh dear,’ Eliot says. ‘More coffee anyone?’ He really wants the conversation to move on. Quentin’s face is beginning to take on the kind of look where someone’s just watched a puppy being kicked.

They ignore him.

‘I do accept that,’ Quentin says, staring at Sylvia. ‘Look, where we lived before I was… ill for some time, and had to go to a hospital where they help your... mind get better. The last thought that took me there was the idea that it doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t control shitty things happening to you or the people you love anyway.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘But here… I feel different. I can’t change big things, like that there’s been some awful winters that freeze all the crops and cause starvation.

But I can work on this quest, a little bit, every day.’ He catches Eliot’s gaze, and his gaze softens. ‘I can mend things and make our lives a bit better that way. I’m not? terrible at making food, though. Eliot’s better.’ 

‘I don’t know, I’d say we need to give your carrot flambe another go,’ Eliot says. Quentin rolls his eyes, but he also smiles a little.

‘It’s good to feel like we can change things, Quentin, and I’m so happy you’re finding your space here,’ Sylvia says. She stops. Sighs. ‘And… I’m sorry for pushing the point. But you are a couple living together here for some time, and you’re intending on staying. Am I right?’

‘Uh,’ Quentin says. ‘I mean, we haven’t talked about labels-’

‘We defy conventions,’ Eliot says smoothly, totally aware that he’s just made the kind of insubstantial sentence that sounds worldly and sophisticated while saying absolutely nothing. Judging by Sylvia’s expression, she knows this too. ‘And we might be gone in a week or so when we solve this,’ he adds. Quentin nods emphatically,

Sylvia rolls her eyes. ‘What I mean to say is, you are two men living here together, and only two men. And you’re not Fillorians. That much is clear.’ 

Eliot opens and closes his mouth. Before he can say anything, Sylvia adds ‘Don’t worry, I doubt many have realised. Arie certainly hasn’t, and neither has her family. They assume you’re Floater magi.’

‘That crazy water tribe?’

‘We’re not hurting anyone,’ Quentin says firmly, again. ‘People will understand. They’ll leave us alone.’

Sylvia smiles grimly. ‘I’m sorry, but Quentin, again, that statement is where victim blaming comes from. It assumes that whatever happens to someone else, they must have done something to deserve it. And as to whether you have something of value,’ she says, turning to Eliot, ‘Well, desperation fuels stories. You need to be ready.’ 

She turns to Quentin. ‘A band of roving robbers hear about two magicians who happen to have made a lot of coin selling… what was Arie on about, right, enchanted wagon rods. They wait until you’re asleep and attack Eliot, because he’s taller and therefore seen as the bigger threat. What would you do?’

‘This really isn’t necessary,’ Eliot says sharply. Quentin’s hands have stopped playing with the coffee mug, and his eyes have turned dark. There’s a pause. 

‘Okay. I’d hurt them,’ Quentin says, softly. ‘I hope I’d stop hurting them when it was clear they’d stop hurting El. But I don’t know if I could.’ He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Eliot is torn between his feeling of wanting to reach out, to comfort, and a dark worry that is beginning to form in his stomach, something he’s been trying to suppress since talking to Lunk.

_What if Fillorians hear about the two men engaged in hanky-panky living by themselves by the mosaic?_

_Are they safe here? Is he strong enough to protect Quentin?_

_And worse: Is his mere existence or proximity endangering Quentin?_

A familiar feeling of panic begins to build up. Eliot closes his eyes. Deep breaths, he tells himself. 

He needs a drink. 

Sylvia’s voice comes as though through a fog. ‘That’s an answer most people give. It’s worth remembering that you’re worth as much as the people you’re prepared to protect. Think about how cut-up Eliot would be if something happened to you, Quentin.’

There’s a silence. Quentin blinks hard a few times, shifts his position.

‘I’m not sure… I can adopt that mindset,’ he says eventually. 

‘You’d better,’ Eliot growls. Quentin looks at him in surprise, then with a little defiance. There’s a tense silence.

‘How safe are we here?’ Quentin says quietly.

Sylvia shrugs. ‘It’s hard to say. This is a peaceful place, as you say, but things do happen. I’m not saying you are in immediate danger. But I am saying it might make sense to prepare in some way. Not in a way that consumes your everyday life, just in a way that _if_ something happened, you’d know which side of the bed to reach for.’ She looks up and fixes Quentin with her sharp, blue eyes, but Eliot can’t help but feel she’s talking to both of them. ‘Just because something is cute and whimsical doesn’t mean it doesn’t have spikes.’ 

‘As anyone who’s ever tried to hold a horny cat will be able to tell you,’ Eliot says. Sylvia’s cackle is so loud the birds around them fall quiet in surprise. Quentin rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. The tension of the last few minutes seems dispelled.

While Eliot refills their coffee mugs, Sylvia picks up the three pieces of jewelry and puts them back into the velvet pouch. ‘I have a few more requests. No explosions, something that would alert other people to what’s going on. Nothing too bloody. Nothing that gets people scared and angry at the same time - nothing that fuels desperation, do you understand? It’s one thing being a magician, and another thing being a witch.’

Quentin takes a deep breath. He suddenly seems determined. ‘We can do that. When would you like this to be finished?’ 

‘Oh, I’d prefer quality over a rushed job,’ Sylvia says. ‘But not too long from now would be lovely. Also, I’d like to see a few examples before committing to the final design. That’s why I brought you these pieces of jewellery. Surprise me. Also, now, we sing.’

She pulls out something that resembles, in Eliot’s eyes, the bastard child of a lute and a ukelele. It’s not pretty. 

He can almost hear the screeching sound of his mental gears doing a u-turn. What, they’ve just talked about weapons and contemplated the idea of someone attacking Quentin because of him, and now she expects them to sing about this? What is this, Sesame Street?

‘Absolutely not,’ he says.

‘Absolutely yes,’ Sylvia says. ‘We have just made a business transaction. Singing completes it.’

‘Um, is that a Fillorian custom?’ Quentin says. ‘Because nobody we’ve met has really done that.’

‘It’s a very important Fillorian custom. The fact that you haven’t heard it just makes it clearer you’re outsiders.’ 

‘And you’re not?’ Eliot says, sharply. Her accent and forwardness - gods, those questions are at least as rude as Margo’s - are really beginning to grate on his nerves.

Sylvia gives him a surprisingly bright, clear-eyed smile. ‘I am at home exactly where I am,’ she says, which is as cliche as it is irritating, and starts strumming a few strings. 

The chords are familiar. Eliot furrows his brow. ‘That sounds like…’

Quentin snaps his fingers. ‘That’s like that Michael Buble song! Dream A Little Dream Of Me!’

Eliot stares at him. ‘You…’ He remembers their argument from the first day by the mosaic and swallows _uncultured baboon_ in favour of ‘Ignorant… uncultured… ugh, _person_!’ Then something clicks in his mind, and he turns to Sylvia. ‘Wait, how do you know songs from another world?’

‘This is from another world?’ Sylvia raises her eyebrow. ‘It’s a traditional Fillorian song about a maiden wishing she could lose her virginity to Ember, but is worried she might mistake him for Umber instead. It’s 24 verses long and has some very unsurprising rhymes with words like ‘mock’ and ‘Carolina’. Have you heard it before?’

 _That’s it._ Talking about… getting attacked at the mosaic is bad enough. But Eliot Waugh will not be sullying the memory of Ollie Nelson and Orchestra (although he prefers the Ella Fitzgerald version). 

He happens to love _Dream A Little Dream Of Me._

‘We have better lyrics,’ he says sharply.

Sylvia shrugs. ‘Prove it, then. I hope you’re a good singer. Young men seldom are.’ There’s a sparkle in her eyes as she says that, which stops Eliot from rising to the bait. 

_Honestly, this woman is fucking infuriating_ . _Too bad she still needs to adjust all the clothing that’s going to make both of them look spectacular._ Sylvia starts strumming the first chords again, and Quentin is lazily clicking his fingers in rhythm to the music. It’s doing something to Eliot. 

So sue him, he's always had a flare for singing. He sang in his church choir. He sings in the cottage sometimes.

He closes his eyes. Imagines his Bambi before him, a warm summer’s day at the cottage, perhaps a beautiful boy, sipping a cocktail, telling him _Your_ _cocktails are the best, truly, El…_ or some variation of those syllables. 

He opens his mouth, and takes a deep breath. The first note is full and has a small vibrato. 

_‘Stars shining bright above you…_

***

The next days are spent setting up wards and talking about, yes, weapons. 

This makes for surreal discussions. It turns out Quentin is a lateral thinker and is weirdly good at coming up with concepts for weapons.

‘I give you… the earrings of incontinence!’ he says, brandishing a pair of earrings which glitter innocently in the light while dangling off a twig. Eliot raises a sceptical eyebrow. 

‘You mean, they cause whoever attacks Sylvia to soil themselves?’

‘Uh, well, at this point whoever’s wearing them is unable to control their bowel movement, so yeah, they’d probably be thinking of something else than robbing an innocent tailor.’ 

‘One Direction meets The Purge.’

‘Yeah, like that.’

‘So all Sylvia has to do is convince anyone who’s about to rob her to put on a pair of earrings while not touching them herself?’

‘Well if you put it like that…’ 

They make more headway on the wards. It turns out there are a few simple ones that are spun around the trees that mark the perimeter of their little cottage/camp/domistile. At Brakebills, these kinds of wards would trigger a cacophony of honks and wailing sounds; in lieu of actual devices that make these kinds of sounds, Eliot works with what he has. At the end of the day a triggered ward will cause the local wildlife to scream at any would-be-robber or, more likely, startle any lost traveler with their magically enhanced amplitude of squawks and tweets, and, in one case, a slightly out of tune version of Jingle Bells. 

Arie is the first one to experience this.

‘Goodness, it’s early for the medicinal cocaine tree to be flowering,’ she says cheerfully, hands over her ears as she walks into their garden. ‘Oh!’

The sound is suddenly replaced by the sound of confused birds and the occasional annoyed ‘cheep’. Eliot drops his hands nonchalantly next to his body and smiles. 

‘Yeah, it’s a local variety. Grows like weed, we’re trying to get rid of it,’ he says. 

‘Huh,’ Arie says, looking around for the offending plant. Strands of her red hair glitter in the sunlight, and while she’s wearing a skirt, she’s also wearing something that looks like some artist’s approximation of hiking boots Eliot once saw at a medieval fair. Looking at her gives him the _faintest_ of guilty pangs. Even stronger is the sudden feeling of anger that rushes over him.

_Little miss men-who-like-men-are-not-real-men._

Arie is oblivious to his mood. ‘Is Quentin around?’ she asks. 

‘He’s by the stream,’ Eliot says. Washing a certain amount of stickiness off his face, most likely, and taking his time to readjust his clothing. They’re putting the outdoor bed to _good_ use. 

‘Ah. I want to thank him for… well, I don’t know if it was obvious, but I got a little sloshed at the fair and-’

‘It was,’ Eliot says, coldly. Arie looks at him, surprised

Quentin chooses that moment to reappear. His hair is slightly damp, as are the hems of his trousers. Eliot rolls his eyes. Quentin has never managed to wash up at the stream without getting one item of clothing wet. It must be part of being one of those disaster bisexuals Eliot’s heard so much about.

Quentin looks slightly startled as Arie rushes towards him and gives him a big hug. 

‘Quentin!’ she says. ‘My sisters told me what you did. I’m so embarrassed, I’m normally really careful with my drink.’

‘These things happen,’ Quentin says, who looks stiff and awkward and also kind of pleased at Arie’s warm embrace. 

‘To some of us,’ Eliot murmurs. Quentin shoots him a glance. 

‘I know,’ Arielle says quickly. ‘My father and I have spoken about… well, I know. It’s never happened before.’ She rubs her head. ‘Honestly, after that headache, it’s not going to happen again.’ 

‘It’s fine, Arie. Honestly, we’ve all been there. I’m glad I was there to help… and I learnt some great dances!’ His smile is so genuine, Eliot wants to eat him up right there. His heart wells up with anger again as he realises how much care Quentin is showing towards someone who would… well, would probably not approve of his _lifestyle_. 

He’s heard enough of _that_ shit in his lifetime.

He’s just about to give Arie a piece of his mind about that, when she gives him the sweetest smile and says, ‘Oh! Before I forget, on behalf of my uncle and myself, we’d like to invite you to my grandfather’s birthday next week. It will be a big celebration, and we’d love to have you there.’

‘We’d love to come,’ Quentin says, before Eliot can open his mouth. 

‘Well, actually,’ Eliot says, just as Arielle claps her hands and says ‘Wonderful! Silas will be so pleased.’ She gives Eliot another bright smile, which wilts slightly under his cool gaze. ‘Anyway. That’s all I came to say. Thank you,’ she says, turning to Quentin again. ‘Lunk says… a lesser man would have taken advantage of me.’

‘Yeah, that’s setting the bar for manhood pretty low,’ Quentin says, but he's looking fondly at Arie.

Eliot turns abruptly and leaves for the stream. Nine times out of ten Quentin leaves the soap on the flat stone next to the river, and some of the local wildlife takes off with it. The soap isn’t there, but there’s a patch of nettles growing next to the path. Eliot stares at them, then snaps his fingers.

He’s got a nice little bonfire going when Quentin says: ‘Do you want to explain what that was all about?’

Something in Eliot snaps. 

‘A party, Q? What is it you care about anyway, our friends at home or having a good time here?’ He turns around. Quentin’s arms are folded in front of his chest. He looks both confused and annoyed. Under normal circumstances, Eliot would be noticing how cute he looks doing so _\- and fine, he can see it now too, so sue him_ \- but there's something cold inside of Eliot that wants things to burn.

‘Our friends would want us to be safe. And they probably wouldn’t want us to have a bad time while we’re here. You know as well as I do that Arie’s family is influential in these parts-’

‘Great. It’s good to know that when we’re schmoozing with folks instead of working on finding the next key, we’re doing so in style.’ Eliot turns around and holds his hands over another patch of nettles. The flames flare up again. There’s an outraged splutter behind him.

‘What’s gotten into you? You love distractions like this!’ Quentin says. ‘You like Arie! You went… drinking with Lunk!'

‘Well, I hardly know Arie,’ Eliot says, his mind trying to work out whether there was anything accusatory in that last sentence. ‘Neither do you. We don’t really know people out here.’

‘I know you,’ Quentin says, quietly. Unnecessarily.

Eliot sighs. Lowers his hand. Says, ‘Q, nobody can really know someone else. We’re just in this together, trying to get by. And one day we’ll go back.’

There’s a moment where Eliot is sure Quentin is going to yell at him. Instead, he hears Quentin take a couple of deep breaths. 

‘Well, El, whether we know each other or not, we need to survive here. We’re going to… Arie’s grandfather’s party, or whatever. We’re going.’

When nothing comes after a few moments, Eliot turns around. But Quentin has already gone back to the cottage, and the path is quite empty and silent, the air smelling slightly of smoke.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes to the amazing Izzy once again for beta-ing!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thank you goes to Izzy for being an amazing beta-reader. I can't believe we've known each other for over 20 years! This is why fandom rules everyone. You get to meet the most amazing people, and if you're lucky they invite you to their wedding in France, and it's the most lovely and special thing in the world. I am so glad to know you Izzy, and once corona is over we'll go and see if we can dig up that church in the Black Forest.
> 
> Unfortunately The Magicians isn't Izzy's fandom, so if anyone is interested in betaing the next installments of this fic (mainly for characterisation) I would love to hear from you! There will be some more mature themes as the story progresses, so being a little older or having a little more life experience is probably recommended.


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